Journal

After writing yesterday’s post I was reminded of a chapter in Frank Chimero’s The Shape of Design. It’s not the same thing exactly, but it resonated for similar reasons. After all, one of the reasons I like making art is that it does something helpful for my brain.

In the post, Frank writes about making mindless marks as a proxy for a walk through the city without a destination. Something to help “the hitches in his mind begin to unravel.” Here’s a quote from the book:

There is no subject, just as a good walk has no destination; their purpose is movement. My pencil cuts across the paper like a figure skater zipping around her rink, overlapping, skipping, and spinning. The skater ignores the mark that comes in the wake of her movement, and I do the same. This drawing isn’t aesthetic, it is kinetic—more like dancing than drawing.

From time to time since reading that years ago, I’ve done the same thing—sat at my desk with a pencil in hand, letting it roam the page with no purpose other than to get my mind moving in the right way. It turns out that to be the same feeling I want when making art, though.

My day job as a designer means that many of my waking hours are spent meticulously thinking about details, edge-cases and systems. I want my art to be something close to the opposite—at least right now. To simply start moving, intuitively, and let the piece reveal itself.

We spend so long sat in front of screens, making our brain work hard while our body just carries it around. Whether it’s your hand or your body, a little or a lot, movement unlocks so many wonderful things.

For a long time I thought that I couldn’t be an artist because I simply wasn’t drawn to rendering some some scene in realistic detail. Silly thought, of course, but one that I think is shared by many.

The kind of art I most enjoy making is both abstract and immediate. That is, I want there to be immediacy to my movements—almost to have my hand move faster than my brain, lest it start judging.

A few weeks back I was listening to the wonderful Kristin Texeira being interviewed. She made an offhand comment that struck me and stuck with me: that art can simply be a physical expression.

I’m sure it’s an opinion shared by many, and I’m sure that I might have suggested as much myself, but sometimes you need to hear something. I needed to hear this something, at that exact time.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every day that I’ve made art since, I’ve felt so much more connected to the work that I’m making, and (suddenly) completely content to think of myself as an artist.

If your work is more than a physical expression, that’s great (obviously), but it truly can be nothing more and still be wonderful work. The movement itself is as much of the art as anything else.

Something similar is true when viewing works of art too, I think. For years (again) I felt sort of embarrassed that I couldn’t articulate why I liked a piece of art or why an art movement resonated with me.

For some reason, it didn’t feel like enough to just enjoy the work. It seemed insufficient to say that I simply liked how it made me feel. That it tickled my brain in a satisfying but totally ineffable way.

Spoiler: it’s totally enough. You have nothing to prove. Like Rick Rubin, you can just “know what you like and what you don’t like, and be decisive about what you like and what you don’t like.”

So whether it’s art that you’re making or works of art that you’re enjoying—and if you have the same reservations I did—I invite you to join me. Our art movement can simply be art; movement.

I think that everyone has a color that moves them. Some people might have many colors that move them, but I think that everyone has at least one. A color that takes their breath away, or makes their heart heavy.

For me, yellow is one of those colors. Not any old yellow, but a sort of golden, ever-so-slightly-orange yellow. The kind of yellow that reminds you of liquid sun—especially during golden hour in some beautiful place.

I want to be surrounded by that color. I want to see it for as far as I can see. To climb up high and jump into it. I want to just stare at it until the feelings wear off. Odd things to say about a color, maybe, but true.

I doubt that many people get up-close to a single color regularly and just stare at it for a while. Perhaps when you’re decorating a home, but even I (despite the above) wouldn’t paint an entire room yellow. I want to engage with my color actively, not turn it into some passive thing.

As strange as it sounds, though, I think that more people should find their color, and to really think about what that color is. Not to recall their “favorite color”—likely repeated indiscriminately for years—but to really think, at this time specifically, which color most moves them.

My color—one of my colors—makes me feel something close to joyful. Just a strange little feeling that starts in my stomach, goes all the way up to my head, and then pops above it and hovers there for a minute.

How wonderful for a single color to do that. How curious that it should. I’ve learned to stop interrogating why quite so much (for many things) and to simply accept the feeling. To turn my brain off for a moment and just experience that moment instead.

If you have a color, I’d love to hear what it is and how it makes you feel. If you don’t have color, I encourage you to find it (or them).

Patrick Collison shared in an interview that the folks at Stripe have a saying: they really, really, really care. They don’t just care, nor simply really care. They care, presumably, to an abnormal degree.

I think that when you look at what they put out into the world at Stripe it’s pretty clear that that’s true. I’m not just talking about the main thing that they build, either—one of my favorites is Stripe Press.

I could probably write a whole essay about Stripe, about Stripe Press, and about the many other things that the Collison’s have helped to create or inspire, but I’ll save that for now—this is about caring.

The reason that the phrase struck a chord with me is that I really, really, really tend to put a lot of care into my work, too. In some scenarios likely to a fault, but it’s difficult to turn off, even if I wanted to.

Lots of folks talk about finding your passion, and Cal Newport wrote about the reverse: getting good at something such that it becomes your passion. The common element for me, though, is simply to care.

It turns out that deciding to care is pretty much the secret to feeling some sort of pride about my work. Even when there are situations outside of my control, I decide to care—then I at least have that.

It’s not philanthropic—I simply want to live in a more beautiful world and want for things to work as well as they can. I haven’t written about this yet, but I simply want to experience Pirsig-esque “Quality”.

Over the past few months, I’ve decided to really, really, really care about more than ever: morning pages, writing, art, mental health. It turns out that you can fit a lot of Quality into your life. More than I thought.

For some goofy reason, starting to tell myself that I “really, really, really” care has created a little feeling inside of me. Makes me push a little further. Try a little harder. I recommend really, really… (ah, you get it).

This post is a rerun. I post occasional reruns as a kindness to myself and to unearth old posts for new readers. You can read about reruns, too.

Today’s rerun is Nervous Twitches. I have a fondness for (very) short stories that try to say a lot. Stories that could be mistaken for poems; that have a similar economy of language. The post contains 12 words.

I haven’t written many of these kinds of stories because they don’t come to me very often, and there are few ways for me to sit down and try to think of one without it feeling super pretentious. It’s not like some challenge I want to fulfill—some stories simply require few words.

There are these small moments in life that can be captured in a single sentence, but where each word holds an entire story. I wasn’t trying to be clever when writing that post, I was just capturing a fleeting moment. It was only afterwards that I realized what the story really captured.

It did capture a moment in time, of course. A moment that has occurred several times, actually, but a moment nonetheless. It also tells you something about my nervous system, though. It tells you something about my wonderful, caring wife, and perhaps that we weren’t alone.

I enjoy this story more than many of the others I write. A short story that, really, took years to write. I spent seconds typing the words, but I couldn’t have written it without the preceding decade building a relationship with someone who both notices and cares.

These are some of my favorite things to read from others, too. Little vignettes that contain so much, but barely exist on the page. I hope that you’ll capture your own whenever you notice them.

For some reason I like doing things the long, hard stupid way, and this blog is no exception. If you’re planning to post something every single day, it would probably be easier if you had a bunch of drafts; a backlog of posts that you could publish at any time. I have neither.

Every day, I sit down and wonder what I’m going to write about, and I write it (unless I really can’t). The reason for that, of course: this blog is the backlog; the posts are the drafts. I simply share with you what others might keep private until it’s “good enough” because… why not?

There’s something liberating about hammering out a post and immediately typing ship into my terminal—an alias that instantly commits and pushes changes to the main branch of the GitHub repo, making the post live. I’ve toyed with doing it every time I hit save.

For some reason, the idea of a backlog feels like cheating to me, and the idea of a bunch of half-written drafts just hasn’t worked for me yet. Maybe it will one day; maybe both will. For now though I like to sit down, engage my brain (or very purposely not) and just start writing.

One reason is that I want to stay open to each and every day. I rarely write about what happened on a given day, but the thing that happened might inspire the post. I wrote yesterday’s post after telling a friend (who had just been to London) that 5% of my heart still yearned for it.

The drafts that I write here and the backlog I’m building by publishing them will feed the essays that I want to write. The books I might eventually write. The moments I simply want to recall a memory, regardless of literary merit. With that said: welcome to my drafts.

There are several places over the course of my life so far that have called me to them. I don’t think that I could really tell you why—it’s just feeling.

The first place I recall feeling this way about is the Malvern Hills. They’re close to where I grew up, and I’ve been there more times than I can count, but they stayed on my mind all of the moments in between. They’re still on my mind, years later and thousands of miles away.

We’d go there when I was very young, and we’d collect water from the spring at St. Ann’s Well. The same building was home to a cafe where we’d get hot tea and scones as an antidote to the cold wind. It was built in 1813, and you’ve never had tea and scones somewhere more perfect.

When I got older I’d go there alone. I’d ride my motorbike halfway up and climb a few trees. I’d wander, and sit, and wander again. I’d sit quietly with the wild sheep and cows—suspicious at first, but if I stayed for long enough they’d eventually amble over to eat their grass next to me.

The second place that called to me was Trafalgar Square. London was the first place I went that really made me feel like I wasn’t at home any more, and Trafalgar Square was the first time I remember feeling butterflies. It still makes me feel butterflies, every time and especially at night.

When I was old enough to catch the train by myself (and afford the fare) I’d travel here alone, too. I’d wander around the city for hours, and I’d always end at Trafalgar Square. I’d sit on the steps in front of the National Gallery and just feel my insides endlessly swirl around.

I was lucky enough to live in London for several years, and whenever I ended up in Trafalgar Square those feelings would come right back. My sense of direction is terrible, and my wife (knowing that) would sometimes make sure we went there if nearby. I love her for that.

When we moved to New York it was the Brooklyn Bridge that spoke to me. It spoke to me before we lived there, somehow, but it was undeniable once I was up-close. It was beautiful and intimidating and I couldn’t believe that I could just stand there, looking up at it.

We had family visiting one year and they asked what I wanted to do for my birthday whilst they were in town. I knew exactly what I wanted to do: get up early and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge before everyone else did the exact same thing in droves; before it was engulfed.

The weather was terrible and somehow that made it even better. The clouds hung low and the bridge rose up into them. I didn’t want the walk to end. I wanted to walk on that bridge forever. To stand in the middle and look at that view. I still think about it now—all the time.

I live in the Bay Area now, and the first place to call me here was Point Reyes Lighthouse. I know this sounds a little… something, but I knew that I was supposed to go there before I went, and once I arrived I instantly felt that it was one of those places. Like the places I just spoke of.

The reason I drive out there—the reason I slog along the sand for hours to sit underneath, the reason that I’m drawn to make stories and write poetry and tell stories about this place—is because it’s one of those places. A place that calls me to it, for no clear reason.

These places that call us to them are special. They stay with us, and if we’re lucky, we get to revisit them. I get butterflies from the hills just as I do from the square, the bridge and the lighthouse. I’m so grateful that each of them exists, and even more-so that they called me to them.

The last two lines of Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day have been quoted into oblivion. Quoted to the degree that makes people roll their eyes. Framed alongside quips such as “live, love, laugh” and typeset in the swirly-whirly typefaces of wedding invites.

Despite that, I urge you to read the poem every morning.

The Summer Day is such a perfect way to start your day, because reading the whole thing reminds us of at least two things: that life is precious, and that spending the day doing almost nothing is a perfectly great way to experience that life—especially on a summer’s day.

The last two lines in isolation might suggest you’re not doing enough. Like you’re never doing enough. What pressure! What will you do, with your one wild and precious life? What could possibly be enough? But really, on that summer’s day… what else should you have done?

The thing is, if you read the poem enough times and think about it for long enough, you start to imagine how you might spend more of your days. How you might discover the things that feel less like pressure to live someone else’s life, and more like the fulfillment of your own.

Something strange happens, I think, when we get intimate with an idea. When we really internalize it and think about it all the time. It starts to change us. Gradually, at first, and then all at once. I believe that The Summer Day can do that, and I really do urge you to read it.

I worry that my memories are slipping away, or at least enough of the details that I’m no longer sure how accurate they are. Today’s post is simply the result of sitting quietly and trying to remember.

1. We were living on Maple Avenue so I must have been under 5 years old. I thought it would be funny to pretend I was hiding behind the long curtains by putting my shoes at the bottom, poking out, but really I hid behind the chair in the corner. There was fake alarm (“oh I really do wonder where he is”) and then real alarm. I couldn’t keep it going for very long. Never could. It’s hard hearing people in panic.
2. When I was at Gorse Hill nursery, I didn’t really like vegetables. The rule was that you couldn’t go out onto the playground until you ate them all though. I ate them, slowly, but most of the time I took so long that playtime was over. The lunch lady noticed and would sit with me until I finished—chatting to me about nothing, encouraging my progress, and celebrating joyfully when I was done.
3. One of the few times that I did make it onto the playground, my sister came running over to me. She excitedly told me that we’d been invited to a birthday party by her friend, who followed her over. I remember beaming with pride before the other girl said “not him—he can’t come”. It was a weird sort of pain, and I don’t think I’d felt it before. I didn’t usually get invited, but I didn’t get rejected, either.
4. When we were living on Perdiswell Street—I must have been around 5 years old now—I got some firetruck-themed, light-up trainers. They lit up when your foot struck the ground, so I’d run up and down the street over and over before twisting my body to make sure that they were flashing as promised. I felt so lucky to have them, and didn’t ever think about the batteries running out (which they did… quickly).
5. At around the same age (same house), my mom liked listening to Right Said Fred, and in a music video I’d seen he did this thing where he sort of span around and got lower to the ground. In the summer we’d lay a tarp out and run water over it with the hose. I’d pretend to be Right Said Fred for hours, spinning around until I was dizzy. For some reason I thought he was cool—he seemed free of worry.

Yesterday I became a U.S. citizen. I’m fortunate to have been eligible just three years after entering the country, and yet those three years felt long. I say the following with awareness of how incredibly privileged I am: it’s strange to feel like a guest in the place you call home.

There are, of course, many reasons to become a citizen—not least the right to exercise your vote, and to run for office if it becomes obvious that you should do so. You get protections that you didn’t have. Benefits should you need them. A certain security that you otherwise lacked.

Those are all reasons that I care about, but they weren’t the first things I thought of the moment I completed my oath and received my certificate. The first thing was a little more human and a bit more squishy: it was simply the feeling you get when you’re home.

I mean that in the most literal way possible. I’m not commenting on politics or immigration. I’m literally speaking about that feeling you get when you crawl back into your own bed after spending the last week at a hotel for a work trip. A soothing off-ramp for your nervous system.

You don’t realize that you’re carrying that feeling around until you’re not anymore. This will seem like a goofy example, but it’s like when you forget that you’ve left the extractor on whilst cooking, and once you switch it off you realize how wonderful the world sounds without it.

For the past three years I’ve lived in and contributed to this place that I call home, but without fully belonging to it, nor it to me. You feel responsible for your home because it’s your mess to clean up and life is better if you do. I’m glad to feel at home, and I hope to look after it.