One of the diary-like joys of the Friday newsletter is getting to sit down after a week and figure out if the things in my life have been speaking to each other in any particular way.

Usually, the week is a miscellany — if not cacophony — but often a theme appears.

That theme this week is “collective creativity,” brought about by reading about Prince, jazz, and the work of being in a band. It’s a dense one, and good, I think.

Read it here.

Today’s newsletter was about my shelves of diaries in the studio and my practice of keeping a stack of “on this day” diaries I can re-read when I have a spare minute: “Same but different.”

I saw a trackback to my blog with this quote:

“The notebook is the place where you figure out what’s going on inside you or what’s rattling around. And then, the keyboard is the place that you go to tell people about it.”

Who said that? I thought. That’s pretty good.

It was me. Many years ago!

Still pretty true, although, I also figure out a lot of stuff at the keyboard, too.

(I’m a little less binary than I used to be, which I count as progress.)

My friend Alan Jacobs writes in response to a piece bemoaning the fact that nobody reads Arthur Koestler anymore:

You can curse the darkness, or you can light a candle. You can lament that people don’t know the value of Arthur Koestler’s work, or you can write an essay that seeks to call readers’ attention to his best writing. If young people today do not know of events or artists or thinkers or works that you think they would benefit from knowing, you can tell them. That’s one of the main things writers are for.

I am big on being a “curious elder” — and one way, I think, to expand the curious elder idea is to not just be curious about what young people are into, but to also share your curiosity about the world in a way that is generous but without expectation. To point out the things you think are good… just in case somebody, maybe even somebody younger, is looking for them.

(I should note I found the Peanuts comic by looking up the origins of the phrase.)

Related: “Be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

Friday’s newsletter, “Wondrous Variety,” started out with something I read in Clive James’ Cultural Amnesia: 

Humanism was a particularized but unconfined concern with all the high-quality products of the creative impulse, which could be distinguished from the destructive one by its propensity to increase the variety of the created world rather than reduce it. Builders of concentration camps might be creators of a kind—it is possible to imagine an architect happily working to perfect the design of the concrete stanchions supporting an electrified barbed-wire fence—but they were in business to subtract variety from the created world, not to add to it.

I was having trouble coming up with an image for the newsletter and then I remembered this photo I took in a Costco on Oahu.

Read the whole newsletter here.

Today’s newsletter begins:

It’s back to school season here in Austin. We dropped our youngest off at fourth grade this week and walked our firstborn to middle school. How is this possible? I’ve been keeping my mind off the inexorable passage of time by putting the finishing touches on a book proposal and carving stamps from Pink Pearl erasers. (I have always loved shopping for school supplies. If you need a little retail therapy, here’s a list of the gear I use in the studio.)

I named it after an old eastern saying that I can’t quite pin on anybody specific: “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

In today’s newsletter, I write about spending half of a flight to Honolulu drawing a comic while freeze-framing Tim Burton’s Batman:

Planes are excellent places to work, but they’re also excellent places to zone out and to play or do “comfort work” — what I’m calling the creative work we return to when we don’t know what else to do.

Drawing Batman, it turns out, is a great comfort to me!

A reader commented that they’d love to sit across from me on a plane, and it suddenly occurred to me that I left out a huge inspiration from the newsletter: I was sitting on the plane diagonally from a kid drawing, which is what made me get out my diary in the first place!

Here are a few blind contour drawings I made of the kid:

And what I wrote in my diary underneath:

there’s a little kid across the aisle from me who has the most chaotic little marker box and I love it. just scribbling little drawings w/ what looks like EXPO markers and crayons and all kinds of random stuff…

Since the letter takes a turn into kids and the aliveness in the lines that they draw, I can’t believe I left out this detail. But that’s what’s so great about putting work in front of people — the minute you do, you remember everything you left out.

Read the whole letter here: “The comfort of drawing Batman”

Here’s a bonus August mixtape inspired by the music our family listened to while driving around Oahu last week.

I made it from a sealed, pre-recorded cassette I got for 99 cents at End of an Ear. I tape over the cassette’s protection tabs and then I tape over the music and then I tape over the artwork.

This is the mix I really wanted to make for August, but I needed to go to the island first to make sure everything worked. (“Make Time Stop” should’ve been the September mix!)

SIDE A

– Richard Myhill, “Hawaiian Link”
– Janet Kay, “Silly Games”
– Heimo Rhonda, “Sunshine in Hawaii”
– Haruomi Hosono, “Saigono Rakuen”
– Raymond Scott, “Vibes & Marimba”
– Benjamin Rogers, “On a Coconut Island”
– Dominique Demont, “Un jour avec Yusef”
– Paul McCartney, “Ram On”
– Roedelius, “Wenn der Südwind…” (snippet)

SIDE B

– Señor Coconut, “Showroom Dummies”
– Martin Denny, “The Enchanted Sea”
– Harmonia & Eno, “When Shade Was Born”
– George Kulokahai and His Island Serenaders, “Aloha Oe”
– Raymond Scott, “Portofino 2”
– Gaussian Curve, “Impossible Island”

This tape was trimmed down from a 2 1/2 hour playlist I had on shuffle as we drove around the Windward Coast and the North Shore. The best way I’ve found to make a “vibes” playlist is to dump a bunch of stuff in there, and put it on shuffle, and anything that doesn’t fit, you just delete it as you go. 

When it comes to making an actual tape, however, I think you just have to start with the song you want to start with on side A and do one track at a time. (I was going to start with “Ram On” — it was really kind of a theme for our trip: I learned it on ukulele while we were out there and the 9-year-old even requested it — but it’s a song that works better for me towards the end of a side.)

Janet Kay’s “Silly Games” wasn’t on my original playlist, but I heard it by the side of the pool and I got excited because I love that song and started singing along and realized I haven’t put that one on a mix yet. (They were playing a lot of great Jamaican tracks at the resort we stayed at.) 

Everything on this mix is streaming for now, so you can listen on Spotify: 

This is the 9th mix I’ve made this year — if you’d like to listen to them all in one big batch, I made a 6+ hour playlist out of them.

Today’s newsletter was really an excuse to tell you about my vacation (and mess around with recall):

I’m adding the Windward Coast and North Shore of Oahu to my list of magical happy-making drives along the Pacific Ocean. Green mountains, palm trees, sunny beaches, swimming with sea turtles and dolphins, poke bowls, plate lunches, cold coconuts, shaved ice, McDonald’s drive-thrus that still do fried pies, lizards, mongooses, peacocks, horses, feral chickens, Banyan trees, ukulele shops, and watching every sunrise and every sunset. It was the best vacation we’ve ever been on.

I feel about Hawaii the way Mark Twain did:

No alien land in all the world has any deep, strong charm for me but that one; no other land could so longingly and so beseechingly haunt me, sleeping and waking, through half a lifetime, as that one has done. Other things leave me, but it abides; other things change, but it remains the same. For me its balmy airs are always blowing, its summer seas flashing in the sun, the pulsing of its surfbeat is in my ear; I can see its garlanded crags, its leaping cascades, its plumy palms drowsing by the shore, its remote summits floating like islands above the cloudrack; I can feel the spirit of its woodland solitudes; I can hear the plash of its brooks; in my nostrils still lives the breath of flowers that perished twenty years ago.

Read all about “The North Shore.”

We’re going to start a book club back up in the newsletter and I’m taking suggestions for what we should read.

Now, of course, is an excellent time to join the club and become a paid subscriber.

Here’s John Gregory Dunne, in his introduction to The Studio:

Writing is essentially donkey work, manual labor of the mind. What makes it bearable are those moments (which sometimes can last for weeks, months) when the book takes over, takes on a life of its own, goes off in unexpected directions.

Read more in last Friday’s newsletter, all about writing and how to make it less like Donkey Work. 

Here is the reading shelf in our bathroom. For the past month or two, I’ve been reading a few pages of G.C. Lichtenberg’s The Waste Books in there every day.

Here’s how Lichtenberg himself described a “waste book”:

Merchants and traders have a waste book… in which they enter daily everything they purchase and sell, messily, without order. From this, it is transferred to their journal, where everything appears more systematic, and finally to a ledger, in double entry after the Italian manner of bookkeeping, where one settles accounts with each man, once as debtor and then as creditor. This deserves to be imitated by scholars. First it should be entered in a book in which I record everything as I see it or as it is given to me in my thoughts; then it may be entered in another book in which the material is more separated and ordered, and the ledger might then contain, in an ordered expression, the connections and explanations of the material that flow from it.

Read more in today’s newsletter about always having a book with you.

Here’s August’s monthly mixtape I made from a sealed, pre-recorded cassette I got for 99 cents at End of an Ear. I tape over the cassette’s protection tabs and then I tape over the music and then I tape over the artwork.

I was going to save this summer fading fast vibes mix for September, but I’ve decided these days not to save things, to make them when they’re ready:

It was a short tape (only 30 mins) so it was a short mix:

SIDE A

– the first few seconds of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog”
– waxahatchie w/ MJ Lenderman, “right back to it”
– big thief, “time escaping”
– durutti column, “sketch for summer”
– nick drake, “pink moon”

SIDE B

– the mamas and the papas, “got a feelin’”
– bob dylan, “went to see the gypsy”
– the feelies, “raised eyebrows” (faded out around 1:50)
– crooked fingers, “sleep all summer”
– thee oh sees, “golden phones” (faded out after about a minute to fill the tape)

A couple of these selections seemed a little obvious to me, but “Pink Moon” is the perfect song for filling 2 minutes at the end of a mixtape! (And it’s also a perfectly recorded song, no matter how many commercials you hear it in.)

It was a cheap tape that I hit a little too hard on the recording, so it runs a little hot.

I’m trying to extend the pool vibes from the “Firecracker” mixtape, so I don’t really plan on listening to this again until September, but you can listen to it any time here:

This is the 8th of these mixes I’ve made — if you’d like to listen to them all in one big batch, I made a 5-hour playlist out of them.

Filed under: mixtapes

Here’s a photo of me at Bookpeople yesterday. A quick reminder that you can get all of my books signed and personalized and shipped anywhere from here in Austin, Texas. You can also order them and have them waiting for you if you plan on visiting soon. I usually go in on the first Friday of the month to do a big batch. Order here.

Today’s newsletter began with this photo of Tacos Yo Soy on North Loop here in Austin, Texas. (Taken while riding my bike around.) It’s a dense Friday edition, full of good stuff. Read it here.

I will often map out a Tuesday newsletter in my notebook, forget I made a map, and write it without my notes. Then when I go back flipping through my notebook, I discover everything I left out!

Today’s newsletter is about messing around with anticipation and recall to stretch out pleasant events and minimize unpleasant ones. 

On the unpleasant side, I left out one of my favorite parts of the section of Katherine Morgan Schafler’s The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control that inspired the letter:

We justify agreeing to get coffee with someone whom we don’t really want to see by saying something like, “It’ll just be half an hour and then I’ll leave.” No. It’ll be the anticipatory anxiety for the week leading up to that half hour, the half hour itself, and then the negative recall of how you felt annoyed and immediately resentful upon sitting down, didn’t want to be there, and couldn’t believe she said that, even though she always says stuff like that, and that’s why you don’t like hanging out with her in the first place….When it comes to agreeing to engage in events we don’t want to engage in, there’s nothing quick about quick catch-up drinks or quick calls or quick meetings.

This adds a layer to the question to ask yourself to avoid accepting invitations you’ll later regret: “Would I do it tomorrow?”

The time travel involved in this calculation is already tricky — who knows how I’ll feel about doing something five minutes from now, let alone five months from now? But if you think about the time leading up to the event and the time coming down from it, suddenly such obligations reveal their bloated shape. 

(“The job never kills anybody,” says John Taylor of Duran Duran. “It’s the fucking stuff you do in between.”)

On the pleasant side, I was reminded of how important it is to have something to look forward to, no matter how silly.

All of this, by the way, is a form of playing with your experience of time: by exploiting anticipation and recall, you’re trying to effectively slow down and speed up certain events, and using your memory to shape the story you want to tell about your experience. 

You can read the whole newsletter here. 

I don’t know how these Friday newsletters come together. Or maybe I do. They usually start with an image I want to put at the top, or a subject line. Today’s began with the subject line: “Listening is the whole deal.”

I came across that line when I was reading The Work of Art, and I knew I had 3 things I wanted to put in there — the Eno doc, Perfect Days, and the Four Tet interview — which were all somewhat related to listening. So once I had almost half the letter, I figured might as well make it a theme.

My favorite bit in the letter is item #9:

“The act of writing is to me to listen,” said Jon Fosse in his Nobel lecture. “When I write I never prepare, I don’t plan anything, I proceed by listening… At a certain point I always get a feeling that the text has already been written, is out there somewhere, not inside me, and that I just need to write it down before the text disappears.”

I don’t consider my newsletters fine literature or anything like that, but there’s something that happens when I’m out here in the studio at my desk, and I’m writing and just pushing things around, seeing how they bump up to each other — the arrangement presents itself, and the thing just comes into being.

At least, that is, when it’s going good.

Anyways: Happy Friday.

Adam Moss in the afterword to The Work of Art:

THERE IS A PHRASE, variations of which many of the subjects of this book ended up uttering at some point. As they were describing why they did this or that, they would say they “listened” to the work, or the work would “tell” them what to do; the work would “speak” to them, as if a character in a book or a color on a canvas could issue orders. Tony Kushner asked his Angels alter ego, Louis, to explain the play to him; Cheryl Pope waited for the mother in her picture with no face to tell her whether she wanted a face. For a long while, I dismissed this phrasing as cliché — more of the empty language people often employ to describe how they work because creation is so hard to describe. Eventually, however, I began to think that no, maybe listening was the whole deal.

Listening to what the poem or song was telling them was another way of describing how they listened to themselves, taking whatever their imagination spewed forth, recognizing it and translating it back—simplifying it, usually—so their conscious self could go about manipulating it. And this attending (“I was just taking dictation,” said Kushner, a common sentiment) was really, I realized, at the heart of the project of this book. That’s what the exhibits they shared are about. The studies, notes, doodles —they are all ways the artists have of talking to themselves.

Or, as Anni Albers put it: “the listening to that which wants to be done”: 

Yesterday’s newsletter, “Drawing Eno,” was inspired by seeing Gary Hustwit’s new film Eno and how I’ve been drawing Brian Eno lectures and interviews for over 15 years. Here’s a drawing I made from the generated version of the movie I saw:

You can read the rest of the newsletter here.