A note to myself above the unending to-read list:
“Remember: this list will never be completed. Take your time and enjoy it. You only have the rest of your life. However the hell long that is.”
While this attitude works with books, it doesn’t translate to the calcified build-up of “eventually” online inputs that I’m certain were important at the time of their relegation to the eventually and yet become, at the time of their appointed processing — saved, no doubt, for that right waiting room or for that right solitary moment in the Pat Katan’s parking lot (an Elf-themed Christmas tree is taking shape in our home and further shaping requires many trips into the wasteland) that may never come – stunningly unimportant, their urgency having slid down the twisty slide into oblivion.
(The honing and focusing of online (reading) habits continues to be essential / the battle of importance vs. urgency…)
There might be a deeper point to this though if there is, I’ve yet to find it (Possible memoir title? Another possibility: You’re Alone and No One Gives a Shit: A Life in the Arts in the 21st Century; perhaps I’ll write that one, eventually (there’s another one)).
This time it was a couch, the back of which was comfortable enough to rest my head upon while staring at the ceiling with the intention of counting the tiles though I never got around to it. Enough space between wall and couch to place the book I had planned to read (Rushdie’s TWO YEARS EIGHT MONTHS AND TWENTY-EIGHT NIGHTS) but never did simply for a lack of trying, the necessity of conversation, the aforementioned intention to count ceiling tiles, and a general pervasive anxiety punctuated only by the sound of hand sanitizer dispensensation emanating from sources unknown along the endless fluorescent sterilization of a hallway lined with monitors demonstrating the color-coded heartbeats of faceless denizens.
Requirements: quasi-legible, smear-free results for rapid, left-handed thought-vomit exorcism / quick dry time / above average ink capacity / ease of local access to purchase.
The cast-asides: Pilot G2, 0.7mm and 1.0mm (flimsy pen, smearing ink); Pilot V-5 Precise (too fine a point); Papermate Flairs (former beloveds but too thick of a line); uni ball Signo 207, 0.7mm and 1.0mm (close, but too light; the 1.0 was an unwieldy blob-dropper); uni ball Vision Elite 0.8mm (very close, but); uni ball Air 0.7mm (thought for awhile that it might be the one but the bleed through on Moleskine notebook pages was a deal-breaker); Zebra G-301 (ink longevity was worthless); Papermate Inkjoy (no, just no); uni-ball Jetstream RT 0.7mm (almost perfect but too fine a point)…
Also in use: Staples mini-pens for my two Moleskine Volants, one for on-the-go thought capture and the other for recording the results of four-times-daily blood sugar testing aka blood sacrifice to the beeping giants. Not entirely satisfied with this option, though: they tend to write rough near the margins and the too-thick clip tears the hell out of the Volant covers. Suggestions welcome.
The saga continues (?)
As news broke — timed, no doubt, to distract from the horrific Republican tax overhaul and to ensure that its announcement fell through the holiday cracks — of the latest version of the FCC’s plan to gut net neutrality protections, I struggled to find a word that best expressed that particular combination of enraged inevitability / inevitable rage endemic in this, the age of the orange malignancy (I refuse to say his name). The best I’ve come up with with is inevitabullshit.
Will update this list as the story unfolds:
+ Reddit, Twitter, and 200 others say ending net neutrality could ruin Cyber Monday, via The Verge
+ The FCC’s final draft of its proposal to end net neutrality, to be voted on 14 December.
+ While they were at it: The FCC ignored your net neutrality argument unless you made a ‘serious’ legal argument, via The Verge.
+ Oh, and by the way: It’s not just net neutrality: The FCC could also relax one of broadcast media’s biggest rules,via The Washington Post.
+ FCC explains why public support for net neutrality won’t stop repeal, via Ars Technica.
+ FCC Chairman Pai’s statement on the draft order on gutting net neutrality protections in favor of a “light-touch, market-based framework”
+ FCC Commissioner Jessica Rosenworcel‘s LA Times op-ed, “I’m on the FCC. Please stop us from killing net neutrality.”
+ FCC announces vote to destroy net neutrality next month, via The Verge.
+ Here’s How the End of Net Neutrality Will Change the Internet, via WIRED.
+ Oh, yes: NY AG probing ‘massive scheme’ to influence FCC with fake net neutrality comments, via The Hill.
+ For a look at what I believe the internet will look like in the wake of Pai’s kowtowing to the telecoms, I point you to this fascinating article in The Economist on the issue of airport slotting.
Here’s my own comment from July on the first round of Pai’s FCC’s initial moves. I reproduce it here for the sake of completion:
There is no question that net neutrality must be protected; the only question is why are we walking down this path again? It’s simple: this is nothing but a barely disguised act of political spite from the current administration towards the legacy of the previous administration without regard for the fallout and the impact on consumers. We have been down this road before; the matter was settled in 2015: the internet is a protected telecommunications service under Title II of the Communications Act of 1934. It must, for the benefit of civil society and generations present and future, stay that way.
While the dogs stand with tiny paws at the window barking at the humans who dare cross the church parking lot on the other side of the driveway, a moment to share my thoughts between “hushes” while still fresh-ish…
From its opening moments soundtracked by Max Richter’s stirring “On the Nature of Daylight” (an artistic masterstroke that unfairly precluded Jóhann Jóhannsson’s score from Oscar eligibility) to its final denouement, again bookended by Richter, ARRIVAL — anchored by career-best performances from Amy Adams and Jeremy Renner — projects a composed assurance as it reveals its beautiful secrets layer by layer, its message of unity in the face of the unknown permeating each frame. It is a rare film, one that made me say, “This is the best film I’ve seen in a long time,” without hesitation.
I’m still processing it.
I’m sure I will have more thoughts to share on ARRIVAL as processing continues but these blurb-y notions are the first; post-percolation thoughts might show up either in future installments of these first draft ramblings or in next Sunday’s email dispatch, though who knows.
Currently reading: Chang-rae Lee’s ON SUCH A FULL SEA.
During my time as an archivist and later executive director at a Cold War deep history / JFK assassination non-profit, there were two dates which we held aloft as goalposts of survival: the 50th anniversary of JFK’s assassination, on 22 November 2013, and today, 26 October 2017, the day that, at long last, the remaining files on the JFK assassination would be – as a 25-year-old law dictates – released. Now that we are here (and I am not), what incredible morsels will be found inside these three thousand documents? What earth-shattering revelations will stand exposed?
Having spent 2005 through 2009 immersed in the millions of pages that were already released, I can safely say: probably nothing , or at least nothing that would be considered earth-shattering on its own. At best, the unseen pages will help connect disparate dots in the murky patchwork that constitutes modern American history; history, after all, isn’t made of paper: it’s made of people, an always-fluctuating dichotomy of conflict that more often than not stands in stark contrast to the written record.
Unless I’m very mistaken — and I’ll be the first to admit if and when I am — the biggest story out of the files will be that they are now no longer invisible. Beyond that, it and the stories they tell will—unfortuntately—fade into obscurity as something else shiny and new barrels forth in our landscape of the new new new, now now now.
Reading: A DEATH IN BELMONT, by Sebastian Junger.
When I write meta-Informalities it’s clear that I lack the clarity to have something to say; the discipline, however, requires that I must push through and find something, anything, to say — exorcism via keyboard.
I’ve lost count of many times I’ve gone meta. Reboot/recount with this volume.
These pieces are how I bring myself back to the work and back to myself while doing the work. They declutter the brain from the New York Times, the newsletters, and the omnipresent clusterfuck that constitutes the world of 2017. They are my way of signaling to myself that I am alive even if I sometimes feel the opposite before/when/after I write them; they remind me that there is something resembling a brain in here and that it hasn’t turned into an inert morass of overloaded inputs, corporeal and digital.
To the work.
Reading: Faulkner, THE HAMLET (still) / Listening: typing.
In which this home briefly returns to being just a house.
Izzy, the newest member of our family and my little rescue, is spending the day and night at the vet to earn her post-spay cone. It’s only been a short time since the little dog came into my life, but in the hour since K dropped her off, her absence marks a striking and disconcerting return to this house being simply a house.
I know that tomorrow, the Puppers will come back, slightly groggy and with a ring of plastic around her head and that home will return. In the ten ensuing days of Izzy’s JURASSIC PARK-dilophosaurus cosplay, The Morkie will no doubt attempt to teach her her trick learned during her days of beconement: how to scoop up gravel and hurl said pieces with abandon.
Until then, this is a house. And I am here.
There is no comfort to be found regardless of how one contorts oneself in the pleather waiting room chair: there is only the view of buildings or parking lots, a months-old Sports Illustrated with the address label amputated, and the persistent sense that all is out of one’s control, be it the patient or the waiting.
The persistent ding of elevators and the air raid drone of equipment wheeled across shined floors with scuff marks intact. Floral wallpaper / stark lines, anesthetized against the world outside allowing only its own ecosystem of perpetual waiting and perpetual motion to rise above the din.
Legs over the side of the chair or legs crossed / slouched or straight / upside down or rightside up / the address label is still removed and one struggles to remember which section of the parking garage one is parked in and whether the parking will still be free when one leaves. (Seventh or sixth?)
The question of when the patient will leave, the waiting for the results and the waiting to find out that the results require more testing and more results; the only thing interesting on television is QVC and there is no room for opinion except for a universal disdain of the gold zippers on the floral bomber jacket that might match the floral wallpaper or the mauve of the exercise ball behind the windows of the physical therapy center, the hum of a treadmill.
The question of when the waiting will get to leave and wait no more (until tomorrow); begrudging acceptance that one doesn’t necessarily cede control when one passes through the glass doors and the non-smoking campus signs but the moment one wakes up.
(Happy birthday, Dear Morkie)