Journal

I love simple pleasures. I was reminded of this today as I crushed a few flakes of Maldon Sea Salt between my fingers over the open face of a cherry tomato, and then popped it into my mouth.

The burst of flavor that comes from a good tomato and just the right amount of salt instantly brings a smile to my face. It tastes like summer on the Amalfi Coast; a perfect blend of land and sea.

The right amount isn’t precise—it’s a pinch, and that pinch is your pinch. When Samin Nosrat tells you to salt your water until it tastes like the summer sea, it’s the summer sea you remember.

The perfect point on a pencil. A warm bath and a book. A yolk like liquid gold. Tea at just the right temperature. Soap that lathers just the right amount. Some of the best things in life are small and simple. They feel right, somehow; like there’s no other way they should be.

Taking pleasure in these things—real pleasure, that you stop and savor—creates a rich life, I think. None of the expensive things that I own bring me as much joy as a perfectly salted tomato. None of them beats that first sip of tea, on a cold evening, that warms from within.

How often do you stop to savor these moments; to let them linger for a few seconds? I don’t stop often enough, or for long enough. This is a reminder to me—and to you, if you need it—to do so more often.

Last weekend I popped into Mrs. Dalloway’s bookstore in Berkeley and picked up the shortest book I’ve ever purchased: just 12 pages.

It was an essay from David Graeber titled Bullshit Jobs—the precursor to his longer book of the same name. You don’t find too many books of this length, but it was undoubtedly a book. Pages with ink, some sort of binding, and a cover made of thicker stock.

If you’re not convinced yet, it also has an ISBN (978-1-967751-44-0), a barcode, and a New York publisher (if that matters to you). It has all of the qualities of a book. It has them, of course, because it is a book.

I wish that more people wrote period, but I also wish that more people published books. It’s easy to put books on a pedestal, even if you’re comfortable calling yourself a writer. It feels lofty; serious.

To state something that’s hopefully obvious: I love books. Books are important. Books are wonderful. Books are special, in their own way.

To state something I also believe, though: books are just another vehicle for ideas. We should have more books. Books should be used.

You can print a single copy of a book on your home printer, bind it with staples and give it to someone you love. That’s a book. If you wanted to get fancy, you could purchase an ISBN, assign it to the book, and make up a cool name for your imprint. Still a book; the same book.

If you wanted to sell that book instead of giving it away, you could do so directly in person or online, and honestly say you have a single copy in stock. If you wanted to see if a book store would sell it, you could generate a barcode and affix it to your book. It’s still the same book.

Of course, you don’t even need to print a book for it to be a book. Your book could be a PDF, or an ebook, or simply a website. You’ll find many such books today; books that have never been printed on paper.

I say all of this with the knowledge that I have not produced a book myself—not even by the standards I outlined above. As usual, I’m writing this blog post for me primarily. I’m writing it because I want to publish a book. I want to produce it with love, and give it to those I love.

We treat some things with the wrong kind of reverence, I think. Books should be treated with reverence for what they do, not what they are. Books help to spread knowledge and increase human understanding, but it’s the knowledge that’s important to me; the form a nice treat.

If you’re the kind of person who thinks that you could never publish a book, I urge you to join me in dispelling that myth. If you have an idea, that idea could be a book. It could be pages with ink, some sort of binding, and a cover made of thicker stock—or it could be none of that.

It’s raining in Oakland today, and a little chilly. This morning I joined my dog Cacio on her bed in my office to warm each other up. We both just about fit if she curls up like a croissant and rests her head on my lap.

For a few minutes, we sat and watched the rain through the window. We listened to the drip, drip, drip as rainwater dropped rhythmically from the awning onto the deck. We listened to the wind buffeting the house occasionally, and in the distance a sound of sirens, growing louder.

I grabbed my field recorder and binaural mics from my desk, plopped down by the back door, and hit record. Let’s listen now.

I can hear the rain at first, but mostly the less pleasant sounds. I love the sound of the very light drizzle blowing against the window, but I could hear the sharp splash of larger drops descending from the awning.

I can hear the faint sound of a show playing from my wife’s phone as she gets ready. I’m not sure what it is, but I like hearing it. Those small sounds you get used to in a relationship; that remind you they’re there.

The familiar tippy-tappy footsteps of my dog now, perhaps coming from the bedroom back into my office. I have my eyes closed, but I can sense where she is. A few seconds later and she’s entered my office. I hear her pause, and can imagine her head tilting as she wonders why I’m sat on the floor. She’s always curious when my face is at eye level.

Today is no different, and she takes a few more steps until I can sense her right next to me. She decides, of course, that this is the perfect time to lick as much of my face as she can, as quickly and furiously as possible. Listening back makes me laugh—the sound is truly a gross one.

Suddenly a loud huff and a sniff in my ear as she gets curious about the mics in my ears. First the right ear, and—because she’s nothing if not thorough—then the left. All that’s left to do is yawn widely, apparently, as I hear the telltale squeak that comes in at the end of a good one.

She plods around a bit, has another sniff, and then I hear the sound of her sinking back into her bed, probably giving me the side-eye. I sit for a moment longer, listening to the sound of the siren grow more and more faint as it disappears into the distance. The louder plop, plop of larger drops is the only sound I hear for a while.

Slowly, the sound of the show gets a little louder, and then louder still, and then quieter again. I open my eyes, hit pause on the recording, and try to follow the sound so that I can speak with my wife.

When I find her, I tell her about the recording. The little licks, the loud sniffs, the tippy-tippy steps. I’m smiling the whole time. I love listening to these little sounds of life, and I love my dog.

“You’ll be glad you have that recording one day,” she said with a smile, and I instantly knew she was right. This small moment where our dog had done completely ordinary things had brought me joy, and yet I could experience the real thing tomorrow, and the next day.

I need reminders like this. I’ve rarely taken photographs of things that I’d like to remember over the years, and sometimes wish that I had. As I wrote about recently, though, my most sensitive sense is sound. It’s the thing that brings memories into view so strongly for me.

This silly recording, just three minutes long, is something that can bring an ordinary moment back someday and make it feel extraordinary. To remember this rainy day with this perfect dog and my wonderfully kind wife. I’ll be glad that I’ve got it, someday. I already am.

“That’s a nice setup,” I heard as I looked up from my small camp chair, Thermos of tomato bisque in hand, a fresh mouthful of baguette.

I was on the observation deck at Point Reyes Lighthouse. After overcoming the human embarrassment of having to chew very quickly and awkwardly climbing out of my tiny seat, I greeted the speaker.

“Oh yeah, uh (cough, choke a little), thanks—I’ve got my soup, my tea, my biscuits, my chair…” I reeled off, before recognizing that they hadn’t actually asked for a full inventory of my backpack. They graciously smiled, laughed a kind laugh, and I stopped listing everything I had.

“You’ve got the right idea,” they replied, “I need to get a setup like that.” Good, okay—steady conversational ground (no thanks to me).

They were three friends that I didn’t learn the names of until we finished speaking, and that I instantly forgot moments later. I didn’t forget because I don’t care (I’m writing about them after all), I’ve just always been terrible with names. I even tried to help myself by repeating each name aloud, one by one, as they were told to me.

At least one of them—and perhaps all of them—had come from L.A. and had hoped to visit the lighthouse for the past 5 years. Finally, they’d made it! Ever the showboat, though, the fog had rolled in, obscuring just about everything you might hope to see—including the lighthouse.

Several other visitors came and left, assuming that the fog was here to stay, and that there was no point in hanging around in the cold. These three friends were different, though. They stayed for over an hour, enjoying the fog (as it should be enjoyed) and holding out hope that it would part—at least for a moment—to reveal the hidden sights.

Despite my earlier baguette-mouthed fumbles, we continued to chat—all four of us—about all sorts of things. I told them I was there to write, and they asked if I was a writer. “Yeah, uh, well sort of… I publish a blog post every day,” I stammered. “I journal… do you journal?”

A paper journal appeared from a pocket, and it was amazing—filled with writing, illustrations and pages of collage. I loved it, and I loved that they were carrying it around with them. I had my journal, too.

We talked about what books we’d write if we were to write one. “Romance,” said one, because they were a romantic and romanticized moments (as you might expect from someone staring into the fog at a lighthouse). “A fable,” said another, because it was far more interesting to convey something in that way—the long way; the poetic way.

We talked about the internet, and how it used to be better when you had to be really intentional about spending time there. We remembered the screeching, gargling sound of getting online, and how it sounded like the internet had to endure some sort of physical pain to provide the service. How paying by the minute made you spend fewer minutes.

At one point enough of the fog cleared to present the long stretch of South Beach, and one of the friends pulled out an amazing camera to take a few photos. “You’re a photographer,” I said, trying to phrase it less like a question and more like an observation. “No, uh, it’s just for fun really… something I picked up a few months ago—four or five months ago.”

They went on to tell me that they’re from an indigenous community, and that they wanted to preserve the stories and the memories of the elders. “The next time I visit, you know, they might not be there.” It was such a wonderful idea—the kind that warms your heart; that makes you glad to be human. “I think that you might be a photographer,” I said.

I pulled the biscuits out of my backpack and offered one to each of the friends. Witnessing their confused expressions, I quickly added “oh, British biscuits, not…” and the expressions softened. “Oh, like cookies,” one of them suggested, to which I replied “yeah, exactly” but thought “no, not really.” I’d brought McVitie’s dark chocolate digestives.

We looked into the fog as we ate our biscuits, and a couple of us coughed the small coughs that come with eating a dry biscuit sans-tea. Why hadn’t I poured a cup for myself? Why hadn’t I brought enough cups for all of us? I couldn’t have a cup without offering one to the others.

More moments passed. A brief glimpse of the lighthouse. A little more of South Beach. A few more conversations about writing and art and life. Finally, though, it was time for the friends to depart.

I’ve got a terrible habit of trying to romanticize just about everything in the universe, and had probably spent the past hour sounding very pretentious. One of the friends said (surprisingly earnestly) “I feel like you’re a wise man in the fog.” We joked about it, suggesting they’d turn around and I’d have disappeared into the fog, never to be seen again.

Of course, all I’d actually done is what I—a British human man—always do when meeting new people: acted a little awkward, tried to be a little funny, and attempted to sound a little interesting. Less of a wise man in the fog, unfortunately, and more of a wise-guy in the fog.

These three friends, they felt as though they’d become my friends—at least for this moment; for a little more than an hour. I knew things about them that endeared me to them. I’d learned about projects that I couldn’t wait to see out there in the world. They were kind, and funny, and so interesting. They liked chocolate digestives (maybe).

We parted ways without sharing proper contact information, and as I looked into the fog after they left, I wondered if I should have asked. If I ever get to speak with them again, I’ll be thrilled, but it’s also just fine if I don’t. For this moment, on this day, we were four friends in the fog.

Vaguely nautical outfit. Fire-engine light-up trainers. No-brand navy tracksuit. Neon orange Kappa tracksuit. Nondescript black pumps from Shoe Zone. Grey-trousers, white-shirt, striped-tie primary school uniform. Camouflage cargo trousers. Green and blue rugby shirt. Tights with a tail sewn on to play a cat in the school play. Zip-up school shoes. Bow tie. Leather jacket. Bow tie with a leather jacket. Christmas jumper that I thought my grandma made herself. Brown foam and Cub Scout jumper to play a tree in the school play. Blue parka. Sister’s school skirt when pretending to be Right Said Fred. Black-pants, blue-shirt, black-blazer high school uniform. Wide jeans. Wolf shirt. Bootleg Slipknot hoodie from the market that said “my plaque” instead of “my plague” in the track list. Earring. Mohawk dyed blonde. T-shirt with both long and short sleeves somehow. A clown costume (for some reason) to play a munchkin in the school play. Cargo trousers that unzipped to become cargo shorts. Tightest jeans from Topshop (not Topman). Black nail polish. Eyeliner. Formal shoes with skinny jeans (no idea). Mosher hair dyed black. Emo fringe dyed blonde, then red. Buzz cut dyed blonde. Ear stretcher (in one ear only). Nose ring. Snake bites. An expression of aloof malaise to fit in. Shame. Pride. Embarrassment. Bravado.

I’ve always had a strange relationship with sound. For as long as I can remember, if there was a sound in my environment—especially an unpleasant one—that I wasn’t producing and couldn’t control, it would cause some sort of feeling inside me that I couldn’t shake.

The universe decided that I should also be someone who produces more sound than other people. Unknowingly tapping. Humming the same melody in the shower over and over. Making up little songs and being wonderfully unaware that I’m singing them out loud.

I don’t take many photos of important moments, and when I look at photos that exist they rarely take me back. If I hear a recording of the same thing, though, I’m instantly transported. Holding the sea shell does nothing to me; placing it against my ear, everything.

When I first moved into a place of my own, I discovered that the people next door enjoyed occasionally playing very loud music, very late at night. It caused me distress that I’d never felt before. It took over my whole body; fight or flight. I wondered if everyone felt this way.

When we moved to London a strange thing happened: there were so many sounds that any single sound had less of an impact on me. When the world is noisy, what is noise? You begin to notice the quiet, instead—the wonderful, rare, beautiful quiet. Respite from the noise.

New York brought more sounds, but somehow the loudest ones still managed to cut through it all. The house would shake; the windows rattle. I’d put my AirPods in and turn the volume up. Sometimes I’d have to put over-ear headphones on in addition to the in-ear.

California brought some quiet back, and gave me more access to sounds that made me feel good. The wind through the leaves on a hike. The ocean at Point Reyes Lighthouse. It reminded me that I don’t hate sound altogether, I just like some sounds more than others.

On a dog walk last night I decided that I wouldn’t listen to a podcast as I normally might. I’d listen to the world, instead. I really tried to listen. I put my binaural microphones in my ears and recorded the walk so I could listen back to it later. To see if it sounds how it sounded.

I’m listening to it right now, as I type. I hear the sound of traffic as I approach the road; the sound of tires on tarmac that somehow reminds me of a sneaker lifting from a slightly sticky linoleum floor. An occasional interruption when someone hits one of the many potholes.

“Yellow lights are flashing,” I hear as I press the button to cross the street. For a brief moment, the sound of traffic stops, aside from the whisper of an idling engine. My foot scuffs the ground as I try to get across quickly, dog in tow. Seconds later, my steady footsteps return.

The growing pop, pop, pop of people playing a round of evening pickleball at the courts nearby. A collective “ohhhh” as the ball goes out of play and the popping stops, just for a moment. The gentle clinking of metal on metal from the swinging dog leash as we walk.

Sirens in the distance. Conversation in another language. A burst of saxophone from an open window. The unrelenting chirp of cicadas. The rustling leaves displaced by my dog’s curious nose. The little huffs and sniffs from the same. Everything, everywhere, all at once.

When I first discovered podcasts I fell in love. I could find just the right story, told just the right way, and play it over and over if I wanted to. I’ve played some episodes tens of times because they’re a gift to the ear. A gift to my ear, at least. I couldn’t get enough; I wanted more.

I realized that I could experience emotions through audio stories that I struggled to in real life. I find it difficult to find the right emotion when someone tells me something, but I’ve found just the right ones when listening to every episode of This American Life.

If I need to calm down, get excited, be inspired, or have a cry, I can find the right sound. The right story or soundscape or song—in that order. Hearing people read their work or tell their story moves me. Hearing the natural sounds of the world does the same.

Sound to me is incredibly sacred. I’m a designer, and I think that most people think of design as purely visual, but to me it’s simply being intentional. Designing the sound of my space is more important to me than how it looks; being intentional about sound.

I don’t often talk about this, and I think that’s because it’s complicated to talk about. I’m starting to realize that’s exactly why I should talk about it, though. I’m starting to understand that it’s a big part of me, and should be a bigger part of my work.

The things that cause visceral feelings within us—good or bad—are things that we should pay attention to, I think. Sound is both pleasure and pain for me. It’s the primary way that I experience the world. The sense that’s most sensitive in me specifically.

You’ll probably see me explore this more going forward. To work it into the things that I make—to inspire the things I make, in fact. I hope that I might convey something worthwhile along the way.

I woke up today with the urge to capture more of my memories. In a post from a few days back, I borrowed the format of the wonderful memoir from Joe Brainard, where memories are simply stated, each one preceded by the words I remember. I’ll do the same here today.

I remember buying pick n mix at Johnson’s newsagents. I remember how Mr. Johnson would tip the sweets on the counter, and count them one by one with a shaky finger. I remember how Mr. Johnson Jr. would not.

I remember learning how to ride a bike for the first time in Gheluvelt Park. I remember how thrilling it felt to realize that my father was no longer holding onto the bike—and how terrifying it felt, too.

I remember joining the cub scouts. I remember being so excited for my turn to raise the flag. I remember my bottle-green jumper and getting my first patch for first aid. I remember wearing it proudly.

I remember the first time I got my own bedroom instead of sharing with my sisters or parents. I remember my father still reading bedtime stories, but having to sit in between our bedrooms to make it fair.

I remember the walk to primary school, carrying my bright yellow book bag emblazoned with the three black pears. I remember the lollipop lady who helped us cross the street. I remember how kind she was.

I remember playing a tree in a school play of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I remember being wrapped in brown foam and needing a green jumper. I remember turning the cub scouts one inside-out.

I remember being so excited to get new school supplies for the start of a new school year—especially a pencil case. I remember finding a supportive note from my father when I opened it for the first time.

I remember the hedge that ran the perimeter of the school fields, including both infant and primary school. I remember a few of us crawling behind it so we could go play with the older kids.

I remember trading pogs with other boys on the playground. I remember that some boys had lots of pogs, and I didn’t have many. I remember not minding all too much; I remember just noticing it.

I remember the uniform of grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie in primary school. I remember how the summer uniform was the same, except that the formal grey trousers became formal grey shorts.

I remember the teacher who used to open the fire escape when it got too stuffy in the classroom. I remember how she’d stand in the doorway spinning her arms like a windmill to make us all laugh.

I remember when Pokémon cards got banned at school. I remember the boy who still brought his in. I remember hearing a rumor that the head teacher cut them in half. I don’t remember if it was true.

There’s a tree in the garden that I love.

The neighbor’s garden, not my garden, but I love it all the same.

Some mornings, I’ll sit on the small bench in my office, coffee in hand, and just look at the tree for a while through the back door.

I’d show you a picture of the tree, but a picture wouldn’t do it justice. It’s not just what it looks like, it’s how it feels. Looking at a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge feels nothing like standing right there beneath it.

The morning light filters through the needles in just the right way. The twisted branches stretch into the sky. It’s imposing in a way that a photo can’t convey; dimensional in a way that the camera ignores.

I enjoy my own garden more because of the neighbor’s tree. I’ve never spoken to the neighbor, but I almost want to thank them.

What would I even say?

“Nice to meet you, finally… marvelous tree,” maybe.

“Sorry for staring, it’s just fantastic foliage,” perhaps.

I’m not even sure if the tree belongs to the neighbor, or if the neighbor is a guest of the tree. I’m unsure who was there first. We’re all guests of nature, I suppose, so I should address the tree directly.

The wonderful thing about trees it that they’re so effortlessly dependable. They’re always there, right where you left them; planted firm aside for the occasional sway in a strong gust of wind.

As I watched the tree this morning, a crow flew down from the branch and landed on the wire holding our outdoor lighting. Unable to get steady, it returned to the tree, where it didn’t need to try.

The tree isn’t there for me or the crow, nor for the squirrels that climb it all day long, gleefully teasing my dog from the branches.

It’s there for all of us, or none of us; it’s just there.

I wrapped up at my current (or previous, I suppose) day job today.

I worked from home during my time there, and I’ve mostly worked from home for the past few years. I haven’t always worked from home, though, and repeating this moment of departure a few times now has made me realize something: I like to romanticize moments.

There’s something about sitting in your office at home, alone, and slowly closing the lid of a laptop that doesn’t feel poignant enough. You’re simply sat there, where you’ve sat a thousand times, surrounded by the same objects and activities that you’re always surrounded by.

When I did work in person, in an office in London, I remember the slow walk out of the office on my final day. I remember the conversations I planned to have and the ones that I didn’t; the ones that happened only because someone was riding the same elevator that I was.

It probably wasn’t all that romantic, in reality, but we needn’t let reality ruin a good memory. In my mind I exit with long hugs, a few tears and a slow, drawn-out walk. I don’t think this ever happened, but I imagine looking back every few steps, and finally seeing the lights flicker off. When they do, I see myself nodding my head gently; knowingly.

When I got to Liverpool Street station to catch the Overground back home, I’d stare absent-mindedly at the boards (probably), thinking about the past few years, and the new adventure I was about to embark on. I’d (presumably) decide to stay off my phone on the train, choosing instead to stare out of the window as the city disappeared out of view.

I can’t tell you if any of that actually happened, to be honest, but that’s how it happened in my mind. I do remember today the people who said kind things, the gratitude I paid to others, and the people who wanted to share contact information. Perhaps we simply think of all memories more fondly the further in the past that they are.

The point of this post isn’t that I prefer working in person, because I don’t. I love working from home. I love being able to focus on my work, I love seeing more of my family, and I absolutely do not miss the crowded evening Overground. I do miss marking this one moment with a bit more theatre, though. I miss holding the moment for a moment longer.

Should I have another departure in my future, I’ll do just that. I’ll leave a little more room in the moments following to sit with my experience, and to sit with my feelings. There’s something wonderful about making a big deal out of something just because you can.

My brain’s a little fried today, so when I sat down to think about my daily post, I closed my eyes and started to think of things I could write about. With my eyes closed, though, my ears decided that they should step up, and I got distracted by the small sounds around me.

This post, then, will be about that; about the sounds around me. Our brains are pretty good at filtering out the many noises present in our environment, but when we close our eyes and listen, we hear everything. I’ll close my eyes now, and open them occasionally to write.

I can hear the low rumble of the fridge-freezer, and the occasional crunchy (wrong word) sound that they like to make from time to time. Finally, it lets out a little squeak, and then settles down again.

Just as the fridge goes quiet, the forced-air heating system starts up. I had to get used to this sound when moving to the U.S.—it’s all central heating in England. It’s comforting, hearing that you’ll get warm.

The forced-air stops, and briefly it’s almost silent. I hear my dog plodding toward me from the bedroom where she was napping. I hear her flop down and breathe a big sigh—she’s ready for a walk I think.

Sirens in the distance now, but only briefly. A few seconds at most. I wonder where they’re rushing to, or whether they just wanted to make a light that’s turning red. I hear fewer sirens here than New York.

Silence again, and I can hear my own breath—a little ragged because I’ve come down with a virus this week. It sounds like it’s hard to breathe. It is hard to breathe, actually, now that I think about it.

Next up is the BART just a few blocks away. It’s that sort of vaguely electric sound; a whizzing, or a whining. I normally only hear it when I’m sat in the garden, but sat here in the silence I hear it inside.

The long, slow hooooonk of a freight train now, probably traveling along the waterfront. I hear it at midnight when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t remember hearing it before midnight, but I undoubtedly have.

Another big sigh from the dog, who I just know is staring at me right now. That’s the last sound that I’ll record, I suppose, because it’s time to take her for that walk she so desperately wants (and deserves).