This piece is now almost done! That went pretty quickly — thanks for the company!
(Background audio may include LCD Soundsystem, Justice, Goldfrapp, Thievery Corporation, The Postal Service, Four Tet, Imogen Heap, Portishead, Ulrich Schnauss, Aphex Twin, Dntel, Björk, Moby, Fischerspooner, Stars, Múm, and Underworld.)
They have a disorienting, rambling, dissembling digressive manner, but nevertheless nailed what makes some websites a joy to follow. Attending to one’s obsession cannot fail to find a receptive audience.
A quote from John Gruber’s — as usual — excellent follow-up article entitled Obsession Times Voice:
No one gets into something like this without an obsession, but if your obsession is with the money, and your revenue is directly correlated to page views, then rather than write or produce anything with any actual merit or integrity, you’ll dance like a monkey and split your articles across multiple “pages” and spend more time ginning up sensational Digg-bait headlines than writing the articles themselves. It’s thievery — not of money, but of readers’ attention.
What’s so great, so amazing, about this racket is that it doesn’t have to be that way. You can obsess over your work, build an audience based on deep mutual respect, and eventually opportunities to earn money from it will present themselves. I don’t know how it works, I only know that it does.
Left sketchbook, pencil
Left hair uncombed
Saved by the sandwich!
If you haven’t visited Dornick’s blog before, you should go — there’s something wonderful in the consistent combination of prose, poetry, and photography.
While pondering what makes that recipe great, I remembered a website named blackbough.com which held to a similar approach.
During the time Vivian was writing there (and regularly quoting WS Merwin, Susan Musgrave, and Michael Ondaatje — among others) — every entry evoked that particular feeling of introspection and empathy which always seems to accompany intermittent, road-weary letters from a distant friend.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.
~ “In a Station of the Metro”, Ezra Pound
Writing and art fold space. One creates context, the other memory. For a moment — in that indefinable space between the ticks of the clock which secure light and perception — we find ourselves crossing all intervening distance, breathing the air of our ghosts.