Growth and coming change

I don’t believe in pol­i­tics. I nev­er real­ly did — I’m of no par­ty what­so­ev­er and I have no inter­est and I abjure myself entire­ly of all of it. It’s all a tired LOL and not for me. I just don’t care. Almost noth­ing could be more bor­ing. Sure, I’ve been tricked and conned and fooled and pulled like any­one else, like almost every­one. The only answer is to sim­ply ignore it. Just like ‘social media,’ which is one of the biggest bor­ing jokes and cons of this wreck­éd age. All real friend­ship, life and liv­ing hap­pens off-plat­form, and peo­ple who want to live need to remem­ber that.

There are no answers — only ques­tions. The more I know the more ques­tions that I have and the more that I keep ask­ing. There’s noth­ing else to do. I am inter­est­ed in the long and near, the gone and far away, the moments in our reach that melt away. This is what I’m inter­est­ed in and this is what my work is all about. Writ­ing, sto­ries, nov­els, songs, images and objects made — that’s what mat­ters.

I don’t like Word­Press, either, and I know this site and home­made theme has long out­lived its sim­ple use­ful­ness — it’s time to return to plain HTML and the good hand­cod­ed text of yore, and I’m about to. In my own time — I’m still offline, work­ing and doing, and I enjoy the dis­tance and the silence.

Lounge nights

In the course of going through and mak­ing sense of my sprawl­ing and unwieldy vinyl col­lec­tion, I’ve been shar­ing what I find by DJing at clubs. When I start­ed, I won­dered why I had­n’t done it soon­er. So I’m spin­ning at Por­co Lounge and Tiki Room again this month — most­ly vin­tage lounge, and inevitably this night will end up as a kind of trib­ute to Doris Day. A decade ago — almost to the day — I stayed at her place in Carmel. I knew her pass­ing was inevitable, but it was still sad when it hap­pened. She was the end of some­thing.

The Great Writing Caper

William S. Bur­roughs often sug­gest­ed that one’s dreams are a valu­able tar­get for the writer to plun­der. But what he nev­er said, nor made explic­it, was how the dreams of oth­ers might pro­vide a writer with direc­tion and mate­r­i­al. And yet it hap­pened to him: the dream of a lit­er­ary char­ac­ter, as it occurs inside a nov­el of the past, appears to have giv­en Bur­roughs a mas­sive trea­sure cache.

The dream is Raskolnikov’s, in Crime and Pun­ish­ment. And it brings William S. Bur­roughs to life. His whole oeu­vre seems to spring from it, is out­lined in the pas­sage…

Tim May Got the Net

Tim May died last month. We had­n’t spo­ken in at least a life­time, but he was a dai­ly voice on my screen at a cer­tain time back in the 90s, in the day when the cypher­punks list was not only required read­ing but a required place to be — a time when at least a few of us at Wired held seri­ous to the idea of Mar­shall McLuhan as the mag­a­zine’s “patron saint.” Those were the days when the net came to me through the full-screen pine mail­er inside a Lin­ux shell, at the speed of an ISDN line — one that was nor­mal­ly reserved for busi­ness­es, but that I’d talked AT&T into installing in my home.

I might’ve emailed him only once or twice in the years since 9/11, but I often won­dered what he thought of this new age, with the accel­er­a­tion of the net and its par­al­lel degen­er­a­tion of civil­i­ty, soci­ety, cul­ture. He fig­ured all of this long ago and did­n’t want any part of it. He was so pri­vate you still can’t see his house on Google. There isn’t an image any­where. You can’t even see his street — just the base of it at the bot­tom of a hill, well before it curves off to where his dri­ve­way even­tu­al­ly begins.

Our only col­lab­o­ra­tion was a cypher­punks-era microzine, “tim­may,” that I cod­ed in plain TeX, com­pil­ing some of the most out­landish and grotesque anti-May insults that were inter­ject­ed anony­mous­ly into our cypher­punks con­vos. Back then, if you were writ­ing any­thing new and out­side the main­stream, you did it in a zine. I think copies might’ve been giv­en out at a con — and, of course, mail order. That’s how things got out in those days. And “tim­may” was per­fect­ly out­ré, so he appre­ci­at­ed it.

There’s prob­a­bly only a dozen copies in exis­tence, although I still have the files. It’s just a hand­ful of small pages, a microzine, and none of the facts in it are real — but fic­tion is like that. No writ­ers — as in mak­ers of sto­ries, fic­tion, nar­ra­tive prose — hung out in these places or under­stood it or were part of it, but the net was my mate­r­i­al. The world was chang­ing and the new online world was as real as any­thing. The thought was that “tim­may” would be a weird lit­tle post-post­mod­ern art pan­e­gyric to his ideas of lib­er­ty and free speech.

As it turns out, it was quick­ly for­got­ten — tucked away in time with all my oth­er post-col­lege junk. Every­thing moved on. Until now. And look­ing at it, right after read­ing his obit, I see that it became exact­ly what I thought it would, almost as if I’d felt this moment com­ing twen­ty years before: it’s just a set of cold, old sym­bols on the page, with all the remote and final feel­ing of a eulo­gy.