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March 27, 2021

Expiration, liberation

This is a retro-post from a newsletter once associated with a previous email address I’d been using. Uploading here for archival purposes so it’s not lost when I stop paying for the old address.

About to head off on a run. Second of the spring. It’s 14C. Lumy let me know it’ll be golden hour soon and I want to lap up those sweet honey rays. I’ll be listening to a foreign policy podcast. Wish I could zoom on until I reached some unknown destination, shower there and bed down in somewhere other than the place I’ve been the past however long it’s been. Must be nice to break free from the loop. That’s why I’ve been eyeing up the PCT for years now. Until then, I’ll hit this loop. Be right back.

…

I’m back. Been back. It’s been a few runs since that first bit. All sweet, soon to be soupy sweet in the summer heat. Topless jogs take you back to caveman days. Wind against your chest, sweat licks flicking off your fingertips. Expiration, liberation.

I know I’ve lost listeners moving here from Substack, so I’ll stick to talking text for my own sake. Deciding what to share and when to conceal. How do you decide your own divide between public and private? A trap I’d like to avoid is turning a newsletter into a congealed Twitter account. Gotta underprepare to overshare.

My most “recent” newsletter Is this thing on? was sent out January 8, 2020. I recapped recent writings in a section called Latest reads. Since then, I’ve written 15 posts. Here’s a brief bit on each. I read the titles now and forget what they’re about, so it’s a nice reflection.

  1. Lose yourself | How to land when you’re lost on purpose.
  2. Golf Shack | A simple poem written summer 2014 when I worked handing out clubs.
  3. Around the sun | My threefold constitution for 2021. Doubling down on the first one.
  4. A glimpse at Orville | An attempt at a horror short story.
  5. 25 | Turned a quarter century. How does it feel? How did it / will it feel for you?
  6. Same dessert | Brother and I have been listening to Milo. A rap inspired by his.
  7. Straps that stand out | Overdue post on sponsored watch straps. Kevin Littrell shot photos.
  8. Happiness | Audio-assisted reading on a moment in Bali when I was very alone.
  9. Stubble Cigar | Long overdue review of a wooden razor handle I was given. Photos by Kev.
  10. Congestion | Guess I got stuck and tried to lube the knot with words.
  11. Frank had a small TV | Character study inspired by a letter by Sol LeWitt.
  12. Secret Project | Sharing a bit I wrote to prove chops to someone interested in collaboration.
  13. Rock-solid Marketing | Quasi-case study on a marketing campaign I put together.
  14. Motivation | A structureless piece about finding structure to keep you going.
  15. Copy is terrible | Think about last time you whole-assed something.

…

Been keeping busy. Learning to pick locks. Formed a copywriting agency. Studying for my motorcycle permit. Adopted Aretha Franklin.

Me & Reth

See that stripe-lined blanket? That’s the first bedding I ever owned. When I was a child. It’s an embarrassing reminder that as soon as I’m juiced up with the vaccine, I need to get the fuck out. I miss the world.

Just finished reading Matthew McConaughey’s Greenlights and damn am I envious. It’s well written—a surefire page turner. Puts things in perspective. That someone could write a book as a side-gig to their already earned success. Makes the pursuit of a career in writing feel void. I recommend the book though! If you can put aside the dissonance of a man trying to lay down truths who struggles to portray a balance of luck and hardship in a life of luxury. It’s easy to be introspective when the tab’s taken care of.

The birds are chirping outside again. Windows beg to be open. I’m slowly closing out stock gains to learn more before I invest this time. It’s been seven years of bullish bullshit luck. Conservatively risky. Been back to the ATM in a casino one time ever—can’t fool me twice.

Staying off coffee if I get less than 6.5 hours of sleep, otherwise religious consumption. Walking with binoculars. Earning blisters breaking in Red Wings.

Found the method for a mad perfect hardboiled egg: add vinegar and salt to the water. Lifting weights and protein shakes. Not sure they make a difference. Still haven’t finished Walden.

How have you been?

It helps the hubris to journal in public. I work in tech but don’t know how to dev. So when people say they’re building their thing in public, I want to tag along. Build my thing. Maybe it’s this new agency. About time I entered uncharted territory. It’s the only place I’m at peace.

Until next time,
███

March 11, 2021

Lose yourself

Sometimes I’m writing and really get outside the text processor but not quite as far as beyond the screen. I’m dancing on a digital frontier, peeking over the edge of an editor window at the wallpaper plastered behind it.

I open my papers library and furiously start shifting backgrounds until one sticks, then furiously shift again to make sure it’s right. When I’m in the mode to write I need the right environment, and every alteration adds friction to the process. I can never get quite as lost as I want to be.

It’s essential to not have a damned clue where you are when you start writing because that’s the only way you can be sure you ended up somewhere new.

Vaporwave laxatives

Today at the pharmacy I gazed upon brilliant packaging for bowel bubblers. Intestine ticklers. Gut gravy. Inner-abdominal aerodynamics.

So many medications had boxes that would make your eyes bleed so you’d end up with an even longer receipt. Not this one. Something about it was cool. I could imagine Morpheus opening this box over the strobe-lit sink at a rave.

Something about it told me the package designer did not intend for it to be perceived the way it was, and that makes it all the more sincere.

Sincerity in the scaffolding

Some things feel better than others, and you ought to act on the intuition that guides you toward what’s good. Then grab an x-ray machine, laser-splicer, endoscope, and tweezers to take it the hell apart. Ask yourself what makes it better and treat yourself to the answer.

I’ve found it to frequently parallel with the past. How an object, idea, service, sermon, community, or pound cake came about can tell you why it’s deserving of your delegation.

History ain’t ancient and abstract—it’s eight minutes ago when you took a last swig of lukewarm coffee and weaseled your way to this wordstuff.

Motives. Karmic consequence. Momentum. Don’t follow the money, follow the molecule.

March 5, 2021

Golf Shack

there are times when
a blue awning
on a slender pole
far back between two trees
kisses drops of rain
makes hair stand atop the knees
the daisies droop oh dreary day
yet hold their gold
the gold’s to stay
boulders bould and benches weep
bring the night it is to keep

Written c. summer 2014 at a mini golf course I worked at behind the counter, doling out clubs and chipped ice with sugar syrup. I read, did push-ups, and played games on a clunky laptop to pass the time. Some days I’d work with a friendly, weathered woman named Ginger who once traded a cigarette for a boat of fries at the adjoining restaurant.

Many familiar faces came through. There was an encounter with a therapist I’d seen once or twice—I forget why but it probably had something to do with appeasing my mother. We pretended we didn’t know each other, though maybe it was just me pretending and she never even recognized me.

Besides Ginger, there was a college girl named Amy1 who dreamt of working as a museum curator. She’d regale me with historical happenings to help pass the time. It was quite a waste to pay more than one person to work the shack. Today, many years later, I think the restaurant hands out clubs. Minus one summer job for the listless teen.

  1. I’m not sure if I should be using real names. I’d feel bad jeopardizing anyone’s privacy. But the name Ginger is too lovely not to use and perfectly describes Ginger. She was potent and had a definite presence, could calm your stomach and really neutralize your palate. Amy was none other than Amy the Curator. Any other name would be an injustice. And then there was Ben, who I’d been in a musical with in high school. The transient souls of the shack.↩︎

poetry