Hello again.
I haven’t drunk any coffee this past week-and-a-half, since my last dispatch; it hasn’t been a conscious proclivity recently, moreso a nudge. That, and I’ve gotten decent sleep. It helps that we’re not doing water practices for quite a bit, so I don’t have to wake up too early. The “getting to sleep on time” angle is at least half the battle, though —sometimes, it’s the only controllable half— and I think I’ve been managing that a little better. I’ve been trying to treat sleep like the building block it’s meant to be. I am historically very poor at this; we’ll see if it persists.
Part of the problem is that I’m not sure my alertness is fixable; I can’t really remember the last time I wasn’t —for some extended period, by which I mean: perhaps more than a few days— drowsy. There are marginal benefits, certainly, but eight hours and ten and four are all very much on the same spectrum. I’ll be honest; this is a little disturbing, discouraging, etc.— however it also presents a rare opportunity, in some scenarios, for personal optimism. It’s a continuous block, which allows for the story: if it were moved, I’d be somehow better. Functioning at a higher level.
The trick, as with issues regarding exercise or diet or time management, is to dissuade oneself from allowing an impediment to shift into the converse: an excuse, which is continually subconsciously maintained to forestall the pain of being unplugged from it. I do not think myself Neo; I do think that some part of myself is Morpheus, and that I can jolt myself awake. This is hubris— but it is a common one, and at some level necessary.
If we weren’t able to have that faith in ourselves, we’d teeter-totter off whatever balance we walk, tilting the scales until forced to fully contemplate the Lovecraftian ideas we continually repress: that we don’t, in fact, have the agency. That it doesn’t altogether matter. That’s maybe the one most dangerous concept which exists, isomorphic to the Girardian-memetic-violence which (for example) Thiel most fears. I wish we could face it more directly, could blind it like Odysseus with his gigantic brashness and even larger spear, as we continue to engineer ourselves. I think someday we’ll be able to; I just hope it doesn’t burn too many bridges.
This is the Brooklyn, taken from the Manhattan. It’s not a picture that I find particularly calming, but there is a particular aesthetic tint to it I can’t quite identify; I suspect it’s the poor air quality which causes the stark, comic-book-line-drawing quality of the skyline and the mush of the narrow color palette. Mechanical, almost pop-up book in its matter-of-fact flatness.
It’s easy for life to feel this way, for the shadows to recess backwards and the light to fade, to block our own visions so we can’t see what’s ahead of us. At least, it is on days when the air’s polluted, when what we breathe poisons us without our critical consideration. That’s why I’m trying to sleep more: so that maybe I can take some clearer pictures.
I’ve written previously in this space about diet and exercise, which are a few other major factors in health; it’s curious, in a sense, to think of what remains when we attempt to engineer ourselves in each distinct area: one of the difficult things to grapple with is the idea that some debilitatingly disruptive characteristics may be permanent. Fixed, intransigent, immutable: we’re stuck with some traits, even if we don’t know what they are. This much seems true, even if we don’t know what percentage of human makeup is upbringing or intrinsic; or, in other words, “nature” and “nurture.” I don’t know that it’s productive to focus on these sunk costs, but it appears similarly inevitable, especially when trying to improve everything we can.
If we’re breaking ourselves into constituent parts, that might just be part of doing it best.
Ruminations
I’ve read a couple books, also; I think there’s a particular science to their composition that I couldn’t quite identify the last time I read some similar types of books in quick succession. One of these is Into Thin Air (re-read,) which prompted my re-reading of Into the Wild, and in scrutinizing these books I notice that Jon Krakauer, (for example,) is very good at this clockwork sort of storytelling— the kind that involves a packaging of real events.
Firstly, it’s important to note that those two books are meticulously researched. This is clearly necessary for an ethical retelling of real events; however, Krakauer uses his extensive knowledge of the two incidents in several noteworthy, not immediately obvious ways.
This research allows him to root the narrative he draws out in certain, established historical and geographical context, which both informs the reader and conveys the thoroughness of the scrutiny he has conducted.
By creating this (accurate) impression of well-intentioned due diligence, Krakauer lends credibility to both the events he is unable to be as precise with and the rare occasions in which he extends into conjecture. Several times in Into Thin Air, he disclaims such hypotheses regarding, for example, the fates of fellow climbers.
Krakauer’s study takes on the form both of examining the evidence, and of numerous interviews, which allow him greater flexibility with his structure: though he proceeds largely chronologically, he is able to float through previous events and future perspectives to offer supplementary material at otherwise difficult junctures.
Krakauer, armed with this knowledge and his at times non-linear structure, is able to draw comparisons between similar past events as he progresses, interspersing the most significant periods and papering over those which are dull or about which little is known. This is most prominent in Into the Wild, since there are more of the latter, and the scope of possible parallels to Chris McCandless perhaps more expansive as well as pre-packaged in intrigue.
Quotation is used heavily in both books, both from interviews and from writing such as the journals kept by McCandless and others. This device allows for the presentation of precise verbiage, and offers a structure for the construction of the surrounding sentences and paragraphs, which can then stand in support of the quotation’s phrasing.
Secondly, Krakauer in both books makes a series of stylistic choices I find significant.
The header of each chapter contains a geographic location, followed by a quotation not directly related to the main body of the chapter or, indeed, the book as a whole. They create a broad sort of atmosphere, setting a tone which carries almost throughout both books: tragedy, danger, and yet the philosophical wonder of the wilderness.
The chapter, in contrast, is frequently ended on some ominous, declarative statement. This pulls the reader further forward; at all times they know what will happen, yet not the exact manner in which it will take place.
I consider myself to have a fairly good vocabulary; nevertheless in the space of a few pages I have had to Google “carrel” and “inviegle,” and this is representative; every so often there will be some esoteric word which requires further examination. It doesn’t feel forced— the effect of this, however, is a certain affectation of knowledge.
In addition to these more quotidian observations, there are several I consider relevant to my future writing, which are more broadly applicable in a manner transcending genre.
In Into Thin Air, Krakauer is dealing with a large cast of characters, most closely the fellow climbers of his expedition; he mitigates the reader’s tendency to blend them together in two main ways. First, he introduces them as a group, naming each every time, on multiple occasions before they become altogether necessary. Second, at each such mention he contributes an extended detail about a given member, which serves as a mnemonic to be reinforced. As such, their names remain fresh in the reader’s minds. I am reminded of the efficacy of a similar approach, perhaps, in meeting real-life people.
When Krakauer mentions his errors, he does so without hesitation, and then immediately puts forward a correction with the most backing he can muster; this is but one expression of his humanity’s collision with the material he covers. In Into Thin Air, this is unavoidable; in Into the Wild, it is a deliberate choice to inject his own experience on the Devils Thumb and his investigative trip to Alaska. In all occasions, however, he attempts to walk the balance between insincere insertion and the provision of an incomplete picture; he does this without apology or fanfare, and to the extent his interjections work, they do because he does not draw attention to them as anything but a part of the whole.
This remains true with the presentation of his background research; notably, Krakauer often eschews transition sentences between his main throughline and a historical digression, choosing instead to switch abruptly in the paragraph break. Once or twice, this is jarring; largely, it is more seamless than if explained.
Altogether, there is a distinct voice with which Krakauer chooses to dissect the material, and with which it is packaged within a short book of standard length; I don’t know that I have summarized it well here, but I will continue to consider it.
Work
Since last, I’ve written a book chapter, then a second; I do think reading more of this creative non-fiction and fiction has helped me continue to write it with expediency. I often forget that it’s not only theoretically necessary but rational, and that it’s borne out in my outcomes.
I also wrote some words to be thrown into the mix for the musical I’m helping to create. I’m not very good at songwriting, lyricism, or scripting, so I think it’s an interesting avenue to explore even if I’m mainly doing production.
Link
A Dozen Business Lessons from Waffle House presents the case study of Waffle House, a restaurant of the sort that has for some long time fascinated me: the kind adjacent to one which I would like to one day operate.
Hopefully, this all will be enough material to last until Friday, when —for real— the new schedule will start to coalesce. Fingers crossed.
Until then, I remain