writing

How to read multiple books at the same time....

in , , ,

For several years, after college, I was on a regime of "one book" at a time. In those days, it was mostly classical literature or a book on film/writing craft. 

I was in the habit of reading before bed, or occasionally, in the afternoon when I had some free time, over coffee.

I'd often wonder how we collectively (students) went through several books at the same time in college, and the answer now, so obvious, was because of necessity. 

Jump to about two years ago, when I had a sudden revelation that my reading frequency had dipped to an all time low, and was consumed with a year of MOBY DICK (the year before, WAR AND PEACE). One book, a whole year.

At this time, I came to a reading breakpoint (yes, this is not so dramatic). Rather I can wallow in the dead poetics society, or, get the fuck out of this habit, and open the mind to new ideas. 

I picked up a non-fiction business book. Something I had never done in my life. Why? I was pulled in that direction but that's another story.

But since then, I upped my reading to an average of around 40-50 books per year in the last few. I understand that this is below some overachievers, but the mean of the average American Adult's book count, according to this 2013 PEW study is 12. With a median at a paltry 5 (still more than my MOBY DICK year).

So, what's my method? It's all in a system based on formats, and multiple books at the same time.

For short non-fiction, I use ebooks. For things on the more motivational front, audiobooks is my preferred format. For tougher, more esoteric material, a good ol fashion analog book. For longer non-fiction, or any books on craft or technique or where you need to write information down, analog. For fiction, again, analog mostly, unless it's the size of a novella or shorter, and then it would be read in the ebook format.

So, I read a hardcover in the AM, listen to an audiobook in the car and on a jog. On an afternoon break, or at night, I'm on the Ipad with an ebook. I average about 3 books simultaneously, and can push to a max of 4.

Personally for me, at this moment, I could not read 3 books at the same time in the same format. This switch in format is both contextual, and tacit, and lets my brain welcome new content throughout the day.

One last thing: I love owning books. While I've come to love ebooks and find them superior on many levels especially for it's ease in annotation, I find myself having to buy the analog version as well if I really enjoyed the work, just to make this situation feel real. This is a problem financially. 

 

 

musings of youth and hip hop....

in , , , ,

This last few days I've been on one of my periodic pop culture rendezvous, where I survey a specific landscape that I feel my touch slipping away from.

This round happened to be hip-hop, it's new culture and the first wave of OG's reflecting on where the form has gone. Just a footnote before I get labeled; my youth was spent listening to rap and hip-hop and my roots are that of B-Boy. My crew, OSB used to battle at malls, schools, clubs and anywhere else little dudes could roam the streets and engage in rhythmic warfare. Violence hardly ever broke out, but occasionally a dance battle would turn into an actual battle.

This was during the second wave of breakdancing. I experienced the first wave as well, but I was too little to understand the culture. From spreading out cardboards to keeping PLEDGE in my backpack for lubricating linoleum, this was one of my true teenage passion. I'll provide visual evidence at the end. But alas, i grew out of favor with hip-hop, mostly as a result of new hobby's and experiences. Still however, I am a fan to this day.

One particular note of interest in my recent cultural prowling was promo videos featuring the new kids on the block in hip hop. This being the social media age, the youngsters are all savvy of the technology of promotion.  You don't need to fork over big bucks of your advance to do elaborate music videos or smart campaigns, because in essence, you are doing it all the time. Always on twitter, always on instagram, and tumblr, the homies have some form of capture device on them at all times.

It's not hard to come by a 5d, or a Red Scarlett, or a slew of semi-professional camera's these days (and hell, what is professional anyways anymore). Everybody, including your momma has them. And shit, on a 1080 screen, an iphone is good to go. So, everybody is shooting something all the time. Now you just package that extra footage into "promo's" that end up going on youtube as a way to diversify.

The flow of content is a stream. And to not participate is death to an up and comer. In fact, it's death to everybody except a very select few who've managed to keep those giant, top down, middle of America careers of yesteryear. 

One thing that struck me odd about these promos is that the subject of the piece often, if not incessantly, would be looking down at their phones. This was a very common thread. It's jarring watching videos of somebody who spends an inordinate amount of time looking down at their phones. They're not even fully present through the prism of something that is trying to capture them in the present. And this becomes self reflexive. You ask, "do I do that, because, it looks really dumb". In fact, you might. I know I'm guilty at times.

Further, the subjects would often use their phones to capture another fleeting moment through a picture (instagram) or video. Always looking at a screen, or through a screen. Contextualizing everything through pixel.s

Now, granted I was looking mostly at Hip Hop promos because that's where pop culture is now. I don't think there are 17 year old rock and roll kids getting 6 million dollar 360 deals. And they too probably spend time staring into the abyss of electronics. It's an age thing. It's a culture thing. But, my guess is that there is more to this story.

Which brings me to my theory that our phones, through technology serve some strange psychological need to stare at moving things through light, while desperately trying to hoard moments, and store them away; basically trying to capture a life that's always slipping away, ungraspable. 

There is no doubt that our second life in digitalism will be our preferable choice in a very near future. It's an extremely effective opioid, creating the distance from the dirt and grime of reality. You can break up a relationship without direct conflict. You can insult someone without consequence; you can be a sexist, a misogynistic creep, all without even a cold stare from the other end.  However, it comes with many consequences. Chief among them, loneliness and detachment. That might not sound so bad, but when added up, the results are terrifying.

And with all that talk; here is some breakdancing in a living room, featuring your's truly and some ol school homies.

Peace.


technology.

in , , , , ,

the woman worked at a bar in little tokyo

and she loved her phone so much

and one day, on a cold and rare rainy night in Los Angeles, she made love through her phone 

but the very next day, the phone broke

and it broke her heart

"love is fleeting" , she concluded

but I think she's a bit immature

park.

in , , , ,

he looked straight ahead, as far as his eyes could see in the middle of the warm summer night.  this was where he spent his childhood.  a park, in the middle of the quietest suburb on planet earth.  the grass felt nice.

it was here that he tasted alcohol, and it was here that he first tried marijuana.  It was here that he saw his best friend Arthur body slam Robbie the bully.  it was here, that he and Arthur would discuss what they would do to girls, had they had the chance.  and this certainly changed from year to year.  drastically in fact.

it was at this location that he lay, sprawled out on the grass, looking up at the sky for countless hours, wondering if life would ever change.  It was here that the legion of emotional experiences tickled his bored soul.

and now, if only he could crawl back into that tiny space, and feel those feelings once more, everything would be ok.

generation gaps.

in , , ,

“you got some molly?"
“actually no, I don't.  back in my day they called it ecstasy.”
“back in your day, you were young. now your old so shut da fuck up.”
“that’s not nice.”
“neither is your face.”
“so mature.”
“yeah.”
“i got coke though.”
“ok.”

 

your ghost.

in , , , , ,

the full moon frightens me.
i remember that last terrifying night.
that one whispering night.  the haunting.
your dead soul.
rummaging for the last morsel.
leaving me option-less.
leaving me hung.
the breath escaping.
the squirming.
that last gasp.
a ghost.
your ghost. 

the coat of color reddish.

in , , , , , , ,

Michelle’s favorite coat was a tint of red.  I can get specific about the type of red it was.  But, I don't want to. I mean, I'm sure there is an exact name for that red.  Like all those goddamn house paints with those silly names you find at Home Depot, or some place as dreadful.

I just know, let's say, I can tell you, non subjectively that it was a hue of red.  Or tint of red.  What's the difference?  I can see that you're already signaling me to “Google” it.  But no thanks, I like my world with a bit of mystery.  Plus, Google has clocked me watching porn one too many times.  iI’s embarrassing and I don’t trust them. 

I mean, I get it, all this business about the specific color of a coat, it’s a small detail.  But that's what I remember.  Maybe that's all I really remember of Michelle.  Michelle was a coat to me.  A bit harsh, and selfish, and chauvinistic, but, if you're looking for the truth, yeah, that's what sticks out.  If you don’t like my feelings for Michelle and her red toned coat, big whoop, sue me Larry H.  

We slept around for a bit.  Totally causal.  She never asked me more then four questions or so.  She was a cocktail waitress on the lower east side.  Oh, i remember now, it's coming to me.  she was pretty cute too.  Not a real knockout, but, plenty cute.  So, Michelle, cute, reddish coat, minimal talking.  

Whatagirl man. Whatagirl.

limits of control.

in , , , , , ,

the woman tried to change her life.  one morning, she awoke with an insistent image.  it was herself, but refined, elegant, shiny and new.  she also looked about 25 pounds thinner.

the woman became ecstatic thinking about this image over and over, every second she could.  she was completely obsessed.  it was what she had always wanted herself to be.  an uptown girl.

the woman was soon full of "vital life energy”; an incantation she learned and repeated 45 times a day from an instructional DVD she bought over the internet.  "I AM VITAL LIFE ENERGY" she would scream to herself every morning, at exactly 7am during her morning HOUR OF POWER.  she felt “alive for the first time in years”, she told an uninterested co-worker.  

she continued signing up for the newest workshops, researched all her food habits, bought the latest motivational books.  in a span of three months, she spent $3200 on her new life.  but, it “didn’t really count as an expense, because it was an investment”, she told her mother one afternoon at a juice bar.

one day, on her way to work, she witnessed a gruesome accident.  a motorcyclist lay sprawled out on the concrete, motionless.  Another car flipped over, a body inside, engine running.  the sound of that out of control engine terrified her.

she began to sob uncontrollably.  she didn't know why, but she couldn't control her emotions anymore.  they where running away like that engine.   a week of crying was enough!  she bought her first book on emotional self control after reading all the reviews online.  they were very positive.  one customer wrote, “this book will change your life.  trust me, it changed mine almost instantly.”  she was destined to be somebody else completely. 

her weight, her nose, her goddamn ugly shoes, her lack of emotional self control, her stupid honda civic, her back-fat, her frizzy hair, her gossipy and unreliable friends who drag her to T.G.I Friday's on the weekends.  yes, she absolutely despised herself.

insta-cowardice.

"why is your face so goddamn dirty", yelled the belligerent man to the one legged woman lying on the street. he picked up her worn out walking stick. he looked carefully at it.

"one more hit and I can own you", he chuckled.

she looked so sad in that moment. her hair disheveled, her clothes in tatters. the princess of dejection.

i wish i could help, i thought to myself. but, I'm too busy taking a sad photo to do anything meaningful about it.

tinnitus of the life.

in , , , ,

he wondered, why do the same thing tomorrow as I've done for the last five years?  all the books read, the time in school, the confusion of adulthood.  nothing amounted to anything.  maybe it was his recent affinity for Murakami?  

it was as if, adding salt to his plate didn't change the taste in any reasonable way.  dull. tasteless. limp and, and, what's another word for dull?

he watched the BBC nightly report on public television.  a reporter introduced the special guest; a National Geographic photographer who specializes in war-torn countries.  look at this man's life, he thought.  pictures of dark refugees, deep in agony flashed on the screen.  a small child sewing her ragged clothes.  the man could barely keep his composure.

this, this is what I wanted my life to be, he shouted. someone who makes a goddamn difference he screamed.  but, after the cathartic eruption, he lay silent.  he thought about tomorrow.  the credit card debt, the school debt, the telephone bill, the IRS, his recent trip to Colorado for a best friends wedding.  his stupid, inconsiderate, but fairly large breasted girlfriend.  goddamn, I'm a chauvinist he muttered to himself, sickened at the thought of his refusal to call it off, because sex was all that remained.  and frankly, he didn't even enjoy it all that much anymore.

a moment later, a steady, but thin noise engulfed his left ear.  it made it's way up into his mind like a thin, translucent sheet, drawn out, and slowly falling into place.  the noise grew.  drowning in the sea of noise.  alone, in the sea of noise.

suburban terror.

in , , ,

the nightmares kept coming.  night after night.  soon, I started to wonder if I was in a perpetual dream state.  the faces all had an eerie smile, that propped up on the left side, like a puppet string was holding them up or something.  that's not a natural smile, no, people don't smile like that.  

even at Target, the same looks on faces.  why was I in Target anyway?  that's not a place I would ever go.  i don't have kids, so I don't need to pick up diapers or Oreo cookies, and I certainly don't need a new lamp, or CD's, or whatever else the fuck they sell there.  maybe I've been too judgmental about Target?  see, I'm in a nightmare again.  night after night.