cody frank

before we get started here, obligatory “of course I’m procrastinating on writing by writing about writing”

my ambitions are in excess of my abilities at present. I want to write the kind of novel that swallows the whole world up and spits it back out so that the reader sees it anew, with a sharpened understanding of where we’ve been, where we are, where we’re going. some of you know what specific model I have in mind when I say that, and we’ll get to it, don’t you worry. but first, it’s worth asking myself, what does a novel do?

for a long time, I’ve been dissatisfied with what a lot of my generation thinks a novel does: distill personal experience into simple language that eschews grand narratives or high modernist ambitions in favor of “direct” communication that verges on reportage. memoir-as-novel, autofiction, alt-lit and its offshoots all exemplify this strain of literature.

I have been known to express distaste, if not outright disdain, for this approach to literature. it strikes me as intellectually lazy, narcissistic in the excess, even irresponsible, given the “state of the world.” a certain writer who sometimes serves as metonym for all these ideas, let’s call him Towel N, goes so far as to claim he prefers autofiction because “the closer to reality it is, the more I like it. The next level of autofiction is nonfiction.” leaving aside the confused categories (what would it even mean for nonfiction to be the “next level” of autofiction? like, there’s a hierarchy? does one somehow graduate from the lower, fictional levels of literature into the higher, nonfictional levels? what exactly marks the difference then?), I fundamentally disagree with Towel N’s faith in the ability to document “reality” in a “literal/concrete” way. a maxim I prefer is that all writing is lying. a less cynical version is that we create the world through our attempts at describing it; there’s no “objective” reality to uncover. the map may not be the territory, but it does shape what borders we allow ourselves to be governed by.

however, it’s dishonest of me to say I don’t at all enjoy literature that’s more or less a representation in close facsimile to events as they’re experienced by the author. Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, Anais Nin, Marguerite Duras, Jean Rhys, even Towel N, have all written books I hold in high esteem. I have friends whose writing might be called “alt-lit” or adjacent. so clearly it’s not really “narcissism” that bothers me. and even if I don’t exactly agree with what Emerson said about how novels will be supplanted by autobiography once writers know how to carefully select and describe their experience, I sniff what he’s stepping in.  

as an aside, it’s also not really apathy about the “state of the world” that bothers me either: cringey attempts at social commentary in something like Fake Accounts by Lauren Oyler drive me insane, largely because they merely parrot poorly thought out punditry that seems to almost conscientiously skirt actually discussing any of what makes the modern world the way it is. this is what keeps me from reading something like The Topeka School or the Jenny Offill book about climate change. Dept. of Speculation was….fine. so, even granting that I don’t need literature to be a vehicle for social commentary, a neo-Victorian overreliance on sentimental personal narrative that obfuscates the violence lurking beneath life in the developed world is the primary mode of contemporary letters, and it pisses me off, so my instinct is to run in the opposite direction, avoiding overtly personal meditations on “trauma” or whatever the fuck, in favor of fabulist swashbuckling, absurdist black humor, modernist tectonics, and social satire. 

but alas, it is probably not prudent for me to make reaches for something “epoch-defining” in my first attempt at writing a novel, and the secret is that it’s actually a lack of confidence in my life being interesting that prevents me from writing some sort of quasi memoir. so let’s add a corrective maxim, trite as it is true: write from experience, dumbass, with the caveat that, as Henry James mentions, “experience” is the web of consciousness that collects impressions, interactions, personages, and ideas, not literal “experiences” as in “events you were present for.”

now that I’ve admitted that, I still don’t think my aesthetic project is anything like autofiction. I believe in stories too much to feel content with limp “meditations” on grief/trauma/blahblahblah, filtered through boring personal anecdotes. so what are some novels I like that appear to be divorced from the author’s biography, and what makes them work?

Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood: obviously this novella draws on the author’s own relationships and life among the demimonde, but no one is confusing any of the characters with Barnes herself. propelling the narrative is the cascade of language: hypnotic, bewitching, seductive, decadent. what transpires between the covers is like a half-remembered dream, which makes it hard for me to explain exactly what happens even after having read it twice.

but one lesson to draw from Nightwood is its careful treatment of character. less important than the plot is the sense that things happen to these figures beyond the scope of the page. they all seem some strange mixture of archetype and urchin, not-quite-but-all-too human, and they’re all deeply embedded in the world Barnes conjures. so another maxim: make characters, then place them in situations.

Samuel Beckett’s Murphy: Beckett’s characters, as a counterpoint, don’t often feel like people you could encounter in the world. they are much more transparently constructs of language, mere semiotic referents. this is also true of Nightwood, but in Beckett’s novels it’s drawn to the extreme: these aren’t people so much as puppets, representatives, allegories-but-not-exactly.

more than maybe any writer other than the next one on this list, Beckett focuses on the interplay of signs, the relationship between phonemes, meaning, sound, and context. several of his stories, and perhaps the Trilogy, might better demonstrate this tendency (like “Ping,” which Adam and I discussed here) but I chose Murphy for two reasons:

1. Murphy’s horoscope operates in the plot as something Murphy uses to make sense of the world and also as a source of anxiety for him, which mimics how words function in the book overall, and in life generally. so one thing to learn here is how to use elements in a novel as holographic particles containing the whole; every object, character, symbol, action, and phrase participates in the greater structure. the microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
2. similarly, the chess game towards the end of the book is a distillation, a comedic one, of how pieces move around the board of the text to strategically direct the reader towards certain ideas. now, that’s sort of just an explanation of how chess might be used symbolically in literature, but by including the game’s notation, rather than narrating moves, Beckett further develops the novel’s examination of language as a set of signs that only mean anything in context to someone who understands the rules of the game. chess notation is a metonym for language.

well. three. it’s the one I most recently read.

Vladmir Nabokov’s Pale Fire: like Beckett, Nabokov loved chess, and was known to practice chess problems. of chess, he said that it, like any artform, required “originality, invention, conciseness, harmony, complexity, and splendid insincerity.” I don’t really play chess, to be clear. I sometimes attempt to pick it up, and quickly find myself out of my element.

Pale Fire includes another of Nabokov’s past times, those idle linguistic puzzles he calls “word golf,” where you must find the fewest steps possible between two words of the same length, changing just one letter at a time. HATE – HAVE – HOVE – LOVE, for example. admittedly, I haven’t read that much Nabokov, but I get the impression that these puzzles are included in Pale Fire because this novel is the one most obviously involved in word play, even among the work of the arch word player Nabokov. the creeping sensation of there being some scheme afoot between Shade and Kinbote, that maybe Kinbote isn’t even real, arises out of Nabokov’s careful deployment of language, drawing attention to details via seemingly cast off puns, coincidental phrasings, etc. had I read this book more than once I’d be better equipped with examples, but I’m riding on my memory right now. the possibility that the characters are figments of one another’s psychosis, or that maybe an apparently minor character is the actual narrator, and using conscientious diction choices to tip that off, is very intriguing as a technique.

as an amusing aside, there are only three steps between WORD play and FOUL play.

Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo: Reed likes to dress the things he’s preoccupied with—the ways artistic creation is coopted by the structures it criticizes, the cynicism that promotes “Black voices” while denying Black people actual power, the impotence of the liberal intelligenstia—in farcical garb and quasi-historical settings, putting the subjects at a remove from the immediate context he’s responding to. this approach manages to shed light both on the period that serves as the setting of the novel and on the time Reed is living in: many writers in the Harlem Renaissance, due to their commercial aspirations, allowed themselves to be manipulated into legitimizing bourgeois publishers, which is not all that different from the way writers in the 60s and 70s became mouthpieces for the United State’s cultural imperial propaganda. the satire in Mumbo Jumbo ranges the spectrum from burlesque to deadpan, and formalistically it assumes the methods of crank conspiracy theorists, going so far as to include an extensive “bibliography” that lists Helena Blavatsky and Erich von Däniken, which provokes the reader into wondering how much Reed buys into the alternate history he offers. to this point, I’ve encountered many later “conspiracy theory” works that earnestly quote, from Mumbo Jumbo, that “beneath or behind all political and cultural warfare lies a struggle between secret societies,” which conveniently leaves out the prefacing “Someone said” that Reed tempers the claim with.

though I suspect that Reed does believe that, justifiably.

Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow: in the final accounting, my neurosis about this book stems from what David Graeber says, offhand, in Debt, about how sometimes, at the emergence of a new historical era, there’s an artist who, as though gifted with supernatural foresight, captures the full implications of the new world being born, even more astutely than later generations fully enmeshed could understand. the example he offers is Rabelais, with reference to a passage about debt in Gargantua and Pantagruel. the final era that Debt covers has as its starting point 1971, and it runs through the present; we now are still discovering the implications of the neoliberal revolution; Pynchon started work on Gravity’s Rainbow in 1966 and published it in 1973; I do not know that the historical conditions have changed enough for the ideas expressed in GR to be surpassed. refined maybe, elaborated on sure, but extended into something new? I don’t know, but that’s what I want to do, what I think all artists should really strive for: to be epoch defining.

it’s not exactly that I feel there’s nothing left to say. there’s some Gordon Lish quote about how every artist has to overcome that feeling and realize that their forebears ain’t shit. his point I think involves believing yourself capable of “pissing with the big dogs” or something. I don’t hold my literary idols in such high esteem that I think I could never surpass them. not even the super genius Thomas Pynchon. I can understand rocket science if I make the effort. Pinecone ain’t shit. but when I find myself thinking through the implications of some arrangement in society, some ideological strain, some type of person I might want to treat in my fiction, it’s pretty often that I think “oh that’s already in Gravity’s Rainbow.” or otherwise I do the stupid thing of modeling my approach too tightly on Pynchon’s.

but maybe that’s not such a stupid thing. in an interview with Rick Rubin that’s frankly kind of bland, John Frusciante does make a few interesting points about art making. one thing he talks about is how all art creation is a process of drawing on influences, that being able to tackle some aesthetic problem depends on having a large catalogue of approaches. ripping other artists off is what everyone does, Emerson be damned. Frusciante mentions how he knows musicians with a lot of anxiety over making sure they aren’t copying anyone, who will unconsciously reproduce melodies, rhythms, or riffs, lifting them almost exactly, but that he and the Chili Peppers deliberately model their songwriting after things that inspire them, which gives them more control and allows them to not merely ape something.

so rather than resist how strongly something influences me, it’s better to cultivate a wider range of influences and blend them into something new.

also important to remember what most people overlook, that even with its puzzles, puppet-characters, textual games, symbolic orders, technical pyrotechnics, and the alibi of historical fiction, Gravity’s Rainbow is ultimately drawn from a human’s lived experience. and the fact is I’m not living through the turmoil of the 60s, and that’s fine. countercultures come and go.

besides, it’s not like the world right now is a very stable place, so I may just get my wish for a shakeout.

compiling quotes from this wonderful book. they certainly don’t make cultural study like this any more, folx

• Listless and simple, [the Yankee] might be drawn into a conversation with a stranger, and would tell a ridiculous story without apparent knowledge of its point.
• [The Yankee] seemed cautious and solitary. Asked a question, he was likely to counter with another….But this reluctance was only another form of masquerade. These bits of indirection were social; direct replies would end many a colloquy: questions or evasions prolonged the talk and might open the way for more.
• [Humor] bears the closest relation to emotion, either bubbling up as from a deep and happy wellspring, or in an opposite fashion rising like a re-birth from dead levels after turmoil. An emotional man may possess no humor, but a humorous man usually has deep pockets of emotion, sometimes tucked away or forgotten.
• Yankee speech with its slow-running rhythms and high pitch—as if an inner voice were speaking below the audible one—was well adapted to the monologue. Its sound was subtly varied; the cautious drawl served to feel a way among listeners. As Lowell pointed out some years later, Yankee speech was not so much a dialect as a lingo: that is, its oddities were consciously assumed. It was another form of masquerade.
• This lawless satire was engaged in a pursuit which had occupied comedy in the native vein elsewhere. As if it were willful and human, the comic spirit in America had maintained the purpose—or so it seemed—to fulfill the biblical cry running through much of the revivalism of the time: to “make all things new.” It was a leveling agent. The distant must go, the past must be forgotten, lofty notions deflated. Comedy was conspiring toward the removal of all alien traditions, out of delight in pure destruction or as preparation for new growth.
• The orgiastic forest revivals with their pagan spirit and savage manifestations bore a not altogether distant resemblance to the Eleusinian mysteries out of which the Greek drama had developed.
• Far from having no childhood, the American nation was having a prolonged childhood, extended as the conditions for young and uncertain development were extended and spatially widened by the opening of wilderness after wilderness, the breaking down of frontier after frontier. The whole movement westward had a youthful illusory character, like one of those blind migrations of other people over the older continents.
• To look upon the comedy of this time was to conclude that the Americans were a nation of wild and careless myth-makers, aloof from the burdens of pioneer life, bent upon proving a triumphant spirit.
• [Inevitably] genius embraces popular moods and formulations even when it seems to range furthest afield. From them literature gains immensely; without them it can hardly be said to exist at all. The primitive base may be full of coarse and fragmentary elements, full of grotesquerie or brutality; it may seem remote from the wide and tranquil concepts of a great art: but it proved materials and even the impulse for fresh life and continuance.
• Humor has been a fashioning instrument in America, cleaving its way through the national life, holding tenaciously to the spread elements of that life. Its mode has often been swift and coarse and ruthless, beyond art and beyond established civilization. It has engaged in warfare against the established heritage, against the bonds of pioneer existence. Its objective–the unconscious objective of a disunited people—has seemed to be that of creating fresh bonds, a new unity, the semblance of society and the rounded completion of an American type. But a society has not been palpably defined either in life or in literature.
• For the creative writer the major problem seems to be to know the patternings of the grain; and these can hardly be discovered in rich color without understanding the many sequences of the American tradition on the popular side as well as on purely literary levels. The writer must know, as Eliot has said, “the mind of his own country—a mind which he learns in time to be much more important than his own private mind.”

there were others that I didn’t mark down but as I get farther away from this the less inclined I am to find them

now almost a week into the clusterfuck of financial collapse incited by Silicon Valley Bank’s failure, some salient points should be outlined:

• when Yellen and Biden are careful to reassure the rightfully skeptical and angry public that the federal government’s swift response towards “making depositors whole” is “not a bailout,” and it “won’t come at the expense of the taxpayer,” they are lying. by removing the FDIC’s deposit insurance threshold, they make clear that no, the suffering of everyday people is not important to them, but yes, the risk that VCs won’t get their money is important to them. it’s so important to them that they open the possibility of the Treasury itself backstopping FDIC reimbursement claims, which does come at the expense of the taxpayer. your student loan debt? your life ruining medical bills? that takes time, politics doesn’t happen in a day. some shithead VC with a yacht and tackily decorated homes all over the world? his problems need to be addressed immediately.
• the governance at SVB deserves careful examination, because something suspicious was going on there. there are practices that allow for deposits over the traditional $250K FDIC threshold to be protected in the case of bank failures; these involve breaking the cash into packages of <250K and depositing those bundles into other banks in the participating network, diluting risk for the depositor. SVB required that depositors keep all their funds with the bank. VCs should understand why this would leave them vulnerable to exactly what happened last Friday. so that opens three options as to why this common practice wasn’t followed at SVB.
  • the bankers were somehow unaware that this was a common practice for large corporate deposits; unlikely.
  • the tech bro VCs and the bankers thought they were doing something clever for some obscure reason; possible, given the hubristic faith in “disruption” that is the hallmark of the tech industry.
  • or, they knew this was going to happen, and in fact wanted it to happen; disturbingly plausible.
• if you open the possibility of all deposits ultimately being insured by the federal government not long after the Fed implements a new policy that allows for collateral to be valued at par, meaning according to present market value rather than at a lesser value that reduces risk, what you are paving the way for is making all financial transactions and deposits the responsibility of the Fed. previously the Fed dictated monetary policy by adjusting interest rates, which tightens or loosens the amount of circulating money. admittedly this places a lot of power in the hands of a cabal of bankers without democratic oversight, but their power was mediated by the ways payments processing is done. now, with all deposits potentially the responsibility of the federal government through no limit FDIC insurance, and with commercial banks becoming essentially channels for money to run through the Fed itself because the Fed’s balance sheet is, well, unbalanced, then we’ve arrived at the prelude to that bugbear of many a paranoid: CBDCs.
• and worse, this is happening in several countries, notably Switzerland, where the Swiss National Bank has had to come to the rescue of the failing Credit Suisse. the Swiss National Bank, the US Fed, and 61 other central banks are clients of the Bank for International Settlements, BIS, the central bank for central banks. the BIS has been working for over a year on implementing CBDCs internationally. CBDCs allow the central bank to determine what can and can’t be purchased with the currency, where the currency can be spent, when the currency must be spent by. kinda makes you wish currency were backed by some physical asset rather than valued according to the whims of international elites! but before the goldbugs get too smug, remember that for years the price of gold was fixed twice daily in an office at the New Court headquarters of Rothschild & Co.

Rob Horning once again spitting bars on why everyone needs to both calm the fuck down and actually freak the fuck out about AI.

people I know, acquaintances, friend’s boyfriends (always a dude) ask me, a writer, what I think about ChatGPT. “what do you mean, what do I think?” I ask. they can’t exactly articulate it, but the implication is that AI generated text will make writing an obsolete practice, or devalue the effort required to do research and formulate arguments, or something. I’m not much in the business of making arguments any more, having opinions on everything is merely a way to keep you engaged with whatever They want your attention on, which is the final (current) frontier of colonization. but that’s tangential to the question. someone I was talking to about this made the point that advances in technology necessarily beget further advances in technology, and that we’re “just at the beginning” of this AI revolution (a wildly ahistorical claim, since none of the recent faddish products do anything different than what AI has always done). I tried to point out that technology only continues to advance on itself in this way so long as we as a society continue to believe the advancement of technology is a good in and of itself. he claimed, without basis, that these tools will achieve an unimaginable degree of complexity, such that some AI generator might be able to produce idiosyncratic and expressive text the way that skillful, thoughtful human writers do. obviously I disagree, because even with a rudimentary understanding of machine learning you have to see that all these tools do is approximate some median representation, a blurry outline of what it’s been trained to “recognize” via statistical analysis, and that the machines obviously don’t do anything like “thinking.” he suggested that what if we could train the machine to emulate sarcasm, an affect that depends on a recognition between perceiving beings that each carry with them a mutual appreciation for the semiotic system in which the dialogue is possible? leaving behind the obvious question of why the fuck anyone would want a computer to be sarcastic, I anxiously await a machine that isn’t merely a blank slate for starry-eyed naifs and technonihilists to project all their psychic weirdness onto. plus, people tend, in their enthusiasm, to overlook how much human labor is required to make these tools, instead choosing to believe that God or Atman dictates the course of their development free of human intervention. if any nonhuman force makes them, it’s Moloch.

I don’t want to retread what Horning says in this newsletter: read it for yourself. I agree with his point, that it’s ridiculous to think AI will somehow dissolve reality until people are unable to separate what’s human from what’s machine.

what I do want to say here is that a lot of the anxiety over living in a post-truth world, and the paranoia about “psyops” and about the intractable division being sowed among the people by the creation of echo chambers, is almost entirely mitigated by my having stayed off social media. it’s only when I find myself reading the replies to some tweet my friends have drawn my attention to that the Bad Vibes start thrumming.

well, not entirely. Bad Vibes abound, and paranoia is the only defense we have against the evildoers who rule this secular world, but I digress.

anyway, I’m so glad that the federal government is swiftly coming to the rescue of the failed Silicon Valley Bank. how would we ever achieve the full potential of AI if we allow the start ups researching this technology to lose all their money as a result of their hubris?

The landscapes of Southern Alta & Northern Baja California are nearly indistinguishable from each other. Thanks to plenty of rain this winter, the hills and mountains are lush with greenery. I imagine that summertime things are as sepia dry on the Mexican coast as they are on the Californian. But south of “the border,” I couldn’t help but feel a certain alienness in the air. Not least because my ignorance of Spanish marks me out as a gringo, y un pendejo.

Of course, I wasn’t the only Yankee enjoying their President’s Day in Baja. I’d say about a third of the cars I saw had California plates, and several others repped Arizona and Nevada. Typical Americans. It’s not enough to live the Dream in what before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was Mexico, we have to prance around during one of our many patriotic holidays in the parts we didn’t seize by force. There were so many Patagonia puffies and craft-brewery flatbrims, to say nothing of the skinny blonde chicks in suede floppy hats, you’d’ve thought I was back in Ojai.

At Fauna, one of the upscale restaurants in Valle de Guadalupe specializing in “Baja Med,” a hybrid cuisine blending Mexican, Mediterranean and Asian elements, there are long communal, rather than individual, dining tables. Across from us were sat a couple from Laguna Beach—an enclave deep behind the Orange Curtain. Nixon Country. They were all too impressed to learn we live in Ventura. Ventura is cute, but not impressive. They, well, he, asked way too many questions about it. Her “background is in real estate,” in Tuscon, until she moved to California to support her mom’s third-wave coffee company, which she assured us we could find in Whole Foods. I don’t shop at Whole Foods, but we did happen to stop in on our drive home because we needed coffee for the next day. We did not find her coffee. He, an Australian, “works for the UN.” Started there in 2005, doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan, Nigeria, Syria, and other conflict zones. After a few of the wine pairings, he told stories about texting with a leader of Boko Haram, and meeting a Taliban official at a coffee shop in Thousand Oaks, CA, the very boring LA suburb where I grew up. His LinkedIn profile tells me he’s consulted with the WHO and the Gates Foundation….

The food at Fauna was good. The wine was not.

Last August in several cities along the US-Mexico border, cartels effectively shut down public activities in a show of force that required the Mexican government to call both Army and National Guard reinforcements. Cartel violence has long plagued Mexico’s northern deserts, deserts where outlaws of another kind often die of thirst, fleeing state violence in Chiapas, or in Guatemala, all for a chance to slip into the gilded barbed wire of the United States. It is only if refugees reach a FEMA detention facility that liberals think to cry “fascist!,” never reflecting that obviously, the killing floor of the American nightmare is in the streets of Ciudad Juarez, in Tijuana, in Chiapas, places where drug violence and wanton government repression, overseen by the American intelligence community on behalf of international capital, does all the work of a death camp without any need for trains and ID laws. But drug trafficking is only an additional means for accumulation, a financialization of the gun-for-hire racketeering necessary to protect the real business: petroleum extraction. Mexico is ranked second on the list of countries importing oil to the US: more than Russia, more than Saudi Arabia.

Crossing the border from Mexico into the US is a dispiriting ordeal, and much more arduous than going the other way. Vendors take up one of three highway lanes leading to the US Customs checkpoint, selling snacks, tacky art, cowboy hats, piggie banks in the shape of President AMLO, and even a few puppies doomed to end up among Mexico’s considerable street dog population. Cripples beg for pesos. I watched a man with both hands blown off at midforearm struggle to pull his pants back up after they’d slid to the ground. No one is spared their dignity.

Speaking of banks shaped like AMLO, Mexico is one of the few countries whose currency actually remained strong against the US dollar in 2022. The leftish president is making the most of the economic success by instituting a raft of reforms aimed at bolstering Mexico’s internal markets while paving the way for stronger labor protections. Despite the usual cries from the international business press, AMLO’s anti-neoliberal reforms have not scared off foreign investors in the slightest. In fact, the US, both amidst its Cold War 2.0 Sinophobia and due to just good business sense, has shifted a lot of investments that would have gone to China towards Mexican industries. Why the US would choose months long shipment times across the Pacific over weeks long freights through the southern border I don’t know. But with this infusion of cash from the US comes further dependence on Yankee excellence, a situation with a grim forecast.

One lesson I ought to learn: if I’m going to write, I need to focus, and take better notes. Trying not to idly use the internet helps, but it is foolish to continue believing I can recall details after the fact. Instead of thinking first and filling in later, I should note details first and think later. Naturally I write only what fragments I can dredge out later: if I don’t catch the fragments as they appear, there’s no hope of crafting something larger out of them.

my typewriter’s O key doesn’t sit level with the other keys. it still types fine, so writing on my typewriter doesn’t require I adhere to some Oulipo-style constraint; I wouldn’t even be able to type “Oulipo” at all if that were the case. not that I’m writing this post on my typewriter anyway. some things, like blog posts, I don’t draft as intensively as others, so I can’t be bothered to go through rewriting them onto a hard drive. but doing my writing away from the endless distraction machine of the internet, away from any base-level surveillance, away from the ease of editing afforded by word processors, is something I’m growing to see as necessary if I want to write anything that will outlast the internet.

I opened up my typewriter yesterday to blow out the dust that had accumulated in it with compressed air. mine’s an Olivetti Lettera 22, a model known for being low maintenance: Cormac McCarthy said of his Lettera 32 that the only thing he ever did to keep his in order was blow it out with a service hose. but when I opened mine up, I noticed there was a broken spring loose, and some investigating revealed this to be what causes the O key’s misalignment. so now I need to find a single tiny spring, which is not something easily come by, it turns out, since most hardware like that is sold in bulk. I suppose I could have several dozen spares on hand, but I doubt I’ll ever need that many. maybe I can find one to steal at the hardware store. unfortunately the typewriter repair shop near my place of employment is no longer in business.

keeping my typewriter in good shape will be important as I start building momentum on some longer projects. it’s also important that I start weaning off devices connected to the internet, that is, if it’s important to me that I take a posture counter the dominant culture, and if I want to not waste so much time. there’s a kind of lazy critique popular on the Left that urges people to break away from “productivity culture,” an obvious symptom of the Protestant work ethic underlying capitalism, in favor of “doing nothing” or something, I’m not sure exactly what. as far as I can see, there’s no “doing nothing” on this side of death, so I want my living activity geared towards the things that matter to me. I happen to like being productive. what I don’t like is having my productivity sapped by technology harvesting my data, or having my labor exploited by wage-based employment. that book How to Do Nothing works towards some kind of way of being that isn’t entirely dominated by productivity culture, but I seem to remember that Jenny Oddell doesn’t endorse “just logging off” because it seems like, irresponsible or not possible, my memory of the book is a little hazy. I just know that her plan for “resisting the attention economy” ranked among Barack Obama’s favorite books that year, so I’m skeptical that she really offered anything all that radical.

this past weekend I visited the Hammer Museum for their exhibit commemorating Joan Didion. I have plans to write more extensively about the exhibit and my feelings about the state of curation practices as inspired by a local gallery that recently opened up in Ventura. as such I don’t want to say too much specifically yet, but that essay is really an expansion of some of what I’m feeling here. the pithy way of putting it right now is that, it’s kind of ironic that an exhibit about Joan Didion made me wistful about the lost counterculture of the sixties, given that Didion was not exactly fond of hippies. neither am I for that matter, but it’s undeniable that at least then there was a viable option for refusal that is not so easily seen nowadays, an alternative that really did seem alive with possibility at the time, even if the counterculture ultimately sold out and gave way to the Nixon-into-Reagan era.

I’m not someone who believes that neoliberalism or whatever we’re calling it has totally foreclosed the possibility of an alternative–“capitalist realism” is a problem, but I often critique Mark Fisher for projecting his clinical depression as ontological fact. what that means though is that it’s on me to start thinking about ways of opening alternatives.

any way of living counter to today’s hegemonic monoculture will involve resistance to the culture’s primary motor, surveillance. for starters, this means making good on the threat I’ve long made emptily: getting off social media. I’m not doing that immediately, so if that’s the only way you interact with me you better reach out for some other way to keep in contact or else it’s sayonara suckers. I’m posting this to my Instagram as fair warning. I’m accepting whatever difficulties this makes for me socially and professionally as an artist. I intend on pursuing publication still, but without totally submitting to the demands of the attention economy. this isn’t for the sake of being some contrarian edgelord either; it seems, like art itself, to be a matter of life and death.

I do not mean to be a nostalgic reactionary, or a mere Luddite, scorning social media and clacking on a manual typewriter. but they’re the best first steps I have, and in taking them, I feel a power growing within me.

currently I’m reading The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen. it’s testing my reading comprehension but I’m having a hell of a lot of fun with it.