Portfolio

Sundries

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel:
I try to avoid any book that I see people reading on the train. It's not so much a stance against popular culture as it is an egomaniacal need to feel above whatever it is others are interested in (I should probably take this up with a therapist sometime). When Susanna Clark's massive tome made its US debut, dozens of readers lugged it around for months. I wrote it off as an extension of the Harry Potter phenomenon and thought nothing more of it. A pity, really, as now that I'm lugging the book around myself, I find it quite engaging. With lots of characters, side-stores and footnotes (that go on for pages) Clark has crafted a pleasant world to get lost in.

A Young Adult Novel that I Cannot Mention:
A dear friend just signed a two book deal with a respected publisher. I was honered to read the first draft and offered lots of suggestions and notes. Fortunately, the book really is good. There's nothing worse than having to tell a friend that their book, band, artwork, poetry, or similar expression is . . . really great! No, really, you're totally talented!

I've been in that position more than once. It's hard to maintain a pleasant countenance when, deep down, you feel rather nauseous about the whole thing. This experience was pleasantly different. I'll plug it when it's actually in book stores. For now, I've been sworn to secrecy.

Chris Thomas King
In college, I spent countless hours listening to old, scratchy recordings of blues and folk music. I'd scores of albums, many of them from the amazing Smithsonian Folkways catalog. Sadly, in the days before albums were easily ripped to hard drive, I sold the entirety of my collection to (a very happy) used record store. I needed the cash to support an incredibly stupid relationship. Chris Thomas King, with his extraordinary rendition of the classics, has reunited me with the music that once meant so much to me. I've more or less forgotten about the girl.

His Name is Alive
Fuzzy, geek-synth, electronica from Michigan. With sexy vocals. I downloaded Detrola the other day but have yet to listen to it extensively. I think it's good, but it requires a certain situation (and headphones) to be properly appreciated.

Information Aesthetics
I've been on the job interview circuit for the last couple of months. In countless conversations I'm asked "What sites to you read regularly? Where do you draw inspiration?" The answer, inevitably, is Information Aesthetics. It's the sort of site that looks great to prospective employers and has the benefit of actually being a source of great inspiration.

Journal

Tuesday, December 19

IN SEARCH OF LOST DISPOSABLE TIME
With the exception of yesterday’s entry, this website hasn’t been updated in weeks. Those books listed to the left? I’m not really reading them; I’ve started several times only to leave them sitting, forlorn, on my bedside table. Photographs haven’t been posted to Flickr and my laundry desperately needs doing (which, it should be mentioned, is its natural state). My work, however, is coming along. I’m more or less on track with my thesis, freelance deadlines are being met and I’m never late to meetings.

It isn’t work that’s keeping me from other activities, it’s a bad crowd I’ve taken to running with. Known (by me) as the “Emperors Posse” I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with Galba, Trajan, Vitellius and Caracalla - characters created for the World of Warcraft online game.

Galba, an Orc Hunter, enjoys a Drink.

There’s a term for people who involve themselves in virtual worlds at the expense of the real: catasser. It was coined by a fellow who let his cat suffer an unchanged litter box rather than pause his online gaming. His apartment took on the unpleasant odor of “cat ass” and the term took off.

I’m not at catasser. Really, I’m not.

But I do find that I’ve been playing the game more than I realized. It wasn’t until I looked at the date of my last entry that it struck home - I’d gone weeks without writing. It follows that I’ve also gone weeks without unassigned reading or photography. I’m not shirking my responsibilities, but I’m not pursuing the activities I enjoy either. The rub? The game isn’t all that much fun.

I play, for the most part, because it affords me very real and interesting interactions with the writers and thinkers at Terra Nova. But I keep playing because the game taps into some Pavlovian response center in my brain. The incremental improvements in Galba’s engineering skill (he can make cool steampunk style goggles now!) and Caracalla’s pursuit of the hallowed level 60 create what Ted Castronova refers to as a sort of “chemical response treadmill”.

All of which, instead of getting me down, gives me an idea: What I need is some kind of heads up display for the incremental improvements of everyday life; a readout of pages read, calories burned, friends made and dollars earned. Coupled with a little reward system (a jolt to the serotonin receptors perhaps?), it’d undoubtedly make me a far more productive and enterprising person.

I suppose I could rely on traditional notions of delayed goal satisfaction, but where’s the fun in that?

Monday, December 18

DEREK
I spent most of 2001 as a substitute teacher. Stationed at a single school, I got to know nearly all of the students. I taught biology, Latin, calculus and U.S. history. Teaching, of course, being a relative term; quiet students who remain in their seats constitute success for the substitute.

The most rewarding experience of my short career as a sub came from a week spent with Derek, a blind student who needed help in each of his classes. I’d carry along his braille machine and would read math problems aloud from his textbook. I’d rattle of a series of letters and symbols that I didn’t understand and, without fail, he’d return the correct answer. I’d sit there in stunned silence until he’d ask: “Well, that’s right isn’t it?”

But Derek came from a difficult home; he was regularly called on by the school’s social worker. He wore the same clothes nearly every day and - you could tell by the smell - bathed infrequently. The cane he used to navigate the hallways was warped and broken and one got the impression that his school lunch was his only meal of the day.

His parents were finally pressed into a conference. I heard, through other teachers, that it didn’t go well. His mother, clearly suffering from some psychological problems, insisted that the teachers were posessed by demons. His father, far more lucid, said he struggled to keep his wife in check and attend to the needs of his son.

But given his abilities I thought Derek would make it. His lot in life was worse than most, but he’d be OK.

He wasn’t. Five years after first meeting Derek, I ran into one of his teachers. We chatted for a few minutes before I started inquiring after students. “What did Derek go on to?” I asked.

“Oh … um, he died.”

“…”

“Apparently he had some kind of disease that required careful attention, but we don’t know what happened. He just stopped coming to school one day. It was months before we knew he’d actually passed on.”

“…”