Summer travel

Cape Cod has been on my mind late­ly. So I recent­ly revis­it­ed the Cape by way of Thore­au, in the New­Pages blog.

The video’s on YouTube.

This is one of sev­er­al short book essays I’ve writ­ten this sum­mer — I’ve read about 18 books since the last week of May. 

My mind has also been on the future replace­ment of this site, which I’ve been think­ing of for years, and see that it’s prob­a­bly about time to do. 

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.

Talking out loud to the net

I saw Twit­ter from near­ly the begin­ning — and cyn­i­cal­ly ignored it.* In the begin­ning, I may have had good rea­sons. At the time, I was com­plete­ly offline, amass­ing mil­lions of words in manuscript.

Even­tu­al­ly I got on @michaelstutz, but retained my ambivalence.

Some­thing has recent­ly changed all that — a sure, sub­tle change in the air, that you can feel, that means this is a time for being and cre­at­ing online and shar­ing ideas. And the way Twit­ter’s evolved in recent years, espe­cial­ly with longer char­ac­ter counts and the addi­tion of threads, it brings new & excit­ing pos­si­bil­i­ties for writ­ing. Orig­i­nal Twit­ter, or “Old Twit­ter,” is almost entire­ly a long bor­ing stream of ‘sta­tus updates.’ Not any­more. There’s no doubt that the whole thing’s sud­den­ly compelling.

And now it took me no time at all to get blocked by my favorite sto­ry-thread­ing Inter­net kook — who crossed the line of dece­ny by doxxing inno­cents as part of one of his rants.

* Well, not entire­ly true. I’ve run a sta­ble of char­ac­ters, as an exper­i­ment in online fic­tion, since the beginning.

Instant Writing

Obsessed about a new kind of writ­ing, some­thing more inter­est­ing, and imme­di­ate, than what’s hap­pen­ing in social media or any­where else, cer­tain­ly books—and it was seen in the thrim and shim­mer of the ligh­trays and lush at a dis­co loft par­ty last night. There for a sec­ond, a mir­rored moment alone, when my ancient idea of “instant writ­ing” was haunt­ing me hard, some of it came out quick­ly in great nat­ur­al clarity—it was strong, ver­nal, and maybe the only way out that was rea­son­ably possible.

Because look: I’ve cre­at­ed a moun­tain range of backed-up work in jour­nals and files and piles of pock­et note­books all to tran­scribe, and there’s sim­ply no way to gath­er it en masse togeth­er and orga­nize it with­out stop­ping, and time, and mean­while more—the ideas keep gush­ing forth in their fast-flow­ing froth and I know that the most like­ly way of fin­ish­ing these big leg­ends and books is maybe to write them all out in real­time just as they hap­pen, and instant­ly with fast strokes & brushthought life is trans­mut­ed to word.


Con­trol the medi­um and you con­trol what’s pos­si­ble on it. Lan­guage is the medi­um of thought. So the way to cur­tail thought is to take away the tools that make it pos­si­ble — ban words and phras­es, change their mean­ings, out­law cer­tain expres­sions … and sud­den­ly whole ideas are for­bid­den, if not impossible.

Today the so-called “lit­er­ary” press is among the worst of the polit­i­cal­ly-cor­rect con­trollers. That’s why con­tem­po­rary lit­er­a­ture is so weak and use­less — it has no cul­tur­al cachet, the nov­el and poet­ry have almost no pres­ence or pow­er in pub­lic life. “Lit­er­ary” is a syn­onym for weak-mind­ed, aca­d­e­m­ic PC junk that isn’t worth your time.

I won’t sup­port them, and in return they won’t sup­port me, either — Cir­cuits of the Wind isn’t sim­plis­tic enough for them, they hate a lot of words and ideas in the book, and they sure don’t like white males — dead or alive.

So I was hon­ored to be a part of Loren Feld­man’s doc­u­men­tary film Silenced: Our War on Free Speech, pro­duced by Mike Cer­novich. It’s exact­ly about that. And a lot of us aren’t shut­ting up about it anymore.

Watch Silenced on Vimeo.

Silenced: Our War on Free Speech