Categories
nonfiction

Observations In The Time of Coronavirus: 2 p.m.

Construction, Stillness and Caffeine Withdrawal

2 p.m. // The construction site outside my window begins to quiet down in the 2 p.m. hour (construction is considered “essential” under Mayor Bowser’s stay-at-home order). The crew shows up between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m., so anyone on site much later than 2:30 or 3 p.m. is likely due overtime pay. The hammers and rebar cutters and beeping trucks slow. Only a few finishing touches and cleanup are left on the day’s big push. No new messes or deliveries. With less noise from the work crew, I open my windows. The sound of birdsong has taken over the empty city. 

Inside the apartment, I have a big cooking project going. Chili in the slow-cooker fills the space with the smell of spices that I’ll harvest at dinner time. I give it a stir and then chop an apple and heat some water for herbal tea.

2 p.m. is the hour I long ago set to stop having caffeine. In practice, this alert—when it popped up on my phone—had become a reminder to hurry up and make a final cup of coffee to go with my light afternoon snack (lately an apple with peanut butter or cashews). 

Back in mid-February, when COVID was barely on my radar, I listened to this interview with Michael Pollan about caffeine (and the short Audible story he was promoting). Pollan doesn’t come up with any serious health reasons to avoid caffeine, but a researcher suggests he can’t understand the chemical compound without getting it out of his system for a time. And that’s what Pollan sets out to do. As he tapers his dosage and goes through withdrawal, he finds it harder to write, but his sleep is far better, and his moods more level. As I listened, I realized that I’ve had caffeine in my bloodstream almost continuously since my first barista job in the mid-1990s. Few days off from coffee in 25 years, if any. Maybe this caffeine-tapering experiment is one worth trying? And so I began gradually brewing smaller and smaller doses of caffeine in the morning, and cut out any small amounts of caffeine (green tea, chocolate) from my 2 p.m. snack. 

Making a major change to your daily chemical addictions just as a global pandemic starts might sound ill advised. It might be something you postpone along with the baseball season and St. Patrick’s Day bar crawls. But I was deep in to the experiment by the time stay-at-home became the clear best practice for flattening the curve of COVID’s spread. At least I’m ahead of the game if coffee becomes as scarce as toilet paper. I’m not completely off the drug yet. There is still about 1/4 real coffee mixed in with the decaf I’ve started brewing in the morning (and even decaf has traces of caffeine). I no longer feel a craving for a 2 p.m. dose, and could probably go to all-decaf tomorrow if I wanted (but I’ll wait until I run out of regular). I’m finding that the afternoon is less up and down, steadier. And I’m sleeping well, which is likely not what most people are saying these days.  

Still, I get tired by the end of the 2 p.m. hour. I start my day of screen work and house chores around the same time the construction crew starts their day of building concrete forms and positioning rebar. As the clock nears 3, I remind myself it’s OK to take it slow. I play a guided meditation on my phone instead of clicking on the unread COVID alerts from the Post and the Times. I’ll come back to email later. 


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, a 2019 collaboration with Katherine Mann and Kristin Hatleberg. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

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Categories
poetry

Man on the 90 Bus

You got a place to stay? You doing alright? 
There’s one thing you’ve got to have and that’s a place to stay
Because nobody can afford the rent 
But I’ve got it figured out 
No rent!
That’s the best rent
I watch over the apartments
Big complex up on the hill 
Boss pays me to live there
He’s got more buildings than he knows what to do with 
And I’ve got keys to all of ‘em
He gave me a raise last week
Keeps sending more keys direct from the bank
Every day another envelope jangling 
FedEx, UPS 
Empty places all over town
It’s no trouble watching an empty place
Full place is a lot more work
Have my girl living in one of them now
She was staying with her people 
That wasn’t working
No alone time there if you know what I mean
Brought her there last week 
Had it all set up
TV, sofa, bottle of wine 
“This place yours?” she said
“No. It’s all yours sweetheart,” I said
No sense paying rent if you don’t have to 
But I’m about done with D.C.
I’m going to make my way to North Carolina 
It’s all set up 
Just a little more money
A little more time 
No sense staying in D.C. any longer 
Not when there’s nobody left can afford the rent 


I’ve been riding the bus all my life, but in recent years, the convenience of Uber has tempted me — even on short trips like this one (I was headed to a reading at the fantastic Solid State Books on H Street). I chose the bus in part because rent was on my mind and $7 saved is $7 I can set aside for my landlord.  

I don’t know if my seat-mate thought I was homeless — I hope I looked more put together than that — but his opening question seemed sincere, and his relief at hearing that I had a place to stay felt genuine. Or maybe he was hoping to set me up in one of the places he watches over. His story — condensed with only a few small poetic details altered in this telling — felt surreal to me. Real, in that apartment building superintendent is a real job. Real, in that displacement is a real issue in D.C. Surreal, in that his world seemed to be one in which all the buildings are hollow shells that bankmen stockpile for strange and inhuman ends. 

Many luxury apartments sit vacant after being purchased — monuments to money of sometimes dubious origin . NYC’s growing crop of extravagant air rights spires and Miami’s reputation for no-questioned-asked all-cash real estate deals may be the most glaring examples, but I have to wonder how many units in D.C.’s gleaming new apartment buildings sit vacant as places to park cash while the region struggles to build the 340,000 units of housing it will need to build this decade.

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Categories
process

Welcome to the Conversation

Last week I posed a question without answering it: “What is the conversation you want to be having?” (or, “What conversation do you want to be a part of?”).

I drafted an answer as part of that post before realizing that (a) the question part was plenty long and deserved to stand on its own, and (b) my answer would be a long and rambling one. The answer wasn’t the second half of one blog post, and it isn’t this blog post. The answer would be all the blog posts to follow, all of the work to follow. 

But I do have ideas about this conversation I want to be a part of. It is sure to evolve — as all sustained conversations do — but for starters it will be a conversation about art and commerce, surviving vs. thriving as an artist, collaboration, creativity, politics and friendship. It’s about everything we wrestle with when we struggle to express ourselves: honesty, misunderstanding, anxiety, silence, noise, attention. These ideas are coming together now as I work to build out this website as an intentional coming-together of commercial work and artistic collaborations in to dialogue on this website in order to strengthen both.

But this conversation will also be about history, books, film, and music. It will be a conversation that jumps from storytelling to practical advice, and from cultural criticism to poetry.  

How we talk about ourselves and what we talk about lead to different relationships, different outcomes. Where we talk is just as important. Picture the different modes of conversation in each of these places: 

  • a loud restaurant
  • the back row of a hushed movie screening
  • in bed
  • walking the city
  • on a stage with two chairs before a large audience 
  • in a Facebook thread, or on Twitter
  • from a high window to the sidewalk below
  • in essays published months or years apart

I arrange my apartment to be a welcoming place for conversation. There are books, art and plants surrounding comfy places to sit. When I host a group of friends, I make coffee and set out snacks. These are choices that allow the conversation I want to be having to take place. This website is also an intentional space. It takes a bit of effort to get here from your usual hangouts, the din on Twitter, the hurly-burly of Facebook, so thanks for making your way over. Hang up your coat. Join the conversation.

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Categories
books film nonfiction

Why Didn’t I Read ‘Little Women’ Until Age 44?

Back in December, I was excited to hear that Greta Gerwig had a new film coming out. One of the first things I heard about the film was that she had departed from the source material in interesting ways, ways that critics described as feminist and innovative. I was excited about this, but embarrassed that I hadn’t read the source material. A gap in my reading history had become an obstacle to my love of film. So I finally read Little Women in the week or two before the film opened in D.C. As I did so, I couldn’t help but ask myself why I’d never read Louisa May Alcott until now.

Many of the ideas that ran through my head are explored thoroughly by Anne Boyd Rioux in “Why Don’t More Boys Read Little Women?” — a book excerpt that LitHub helpfully shared just when I was interrogating myself over the question. The excerpt is worth reading in its entirety (and I’m now curious about the full book, Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy: The Story of Little Women and Why It Still Matters). After pointing out that boys once read Little Women in far greater numbers, and finding some choice quotes from powerful men praising the book, Rioux cites three main ideas that have conspired to relegate Little Women to a secret rite of passage that girls “read alone with a flashlight under the covers,” rather than part of the canon for boys and girls:

  1. fear of discussing the story’s feminist implications in the classroom,
  2. a push to teach more contemporary texts, including those by women and people of color, and
  3. a focus on solving the crisis in boys’ reading rates by favoring texts perceived to be interesting to boys.

I have only the vaguest memories of Little Women from my childhood. My mother is a writer. I can picture her speaking of the book fondly, perhaps suggesting it as a book she’d like my brother and I to know and be able to discuss with her. Why didn’t I read it? In these hazy memories, the title and cover played a role. The culture had taught me that there were boys’ books and girls’ books. Yellow spines on Nancy Drew stories. Blue spines on Hardy Boys mysteries. Was I a product of the “crisis in boys reading” educators are so concerned about? I don’t think so. I remember devouring anything that was assigned and getting placed in a seperate “gifted” reading group that met outside of my usual classroom. But, yes I was more excited about after-school cartoons. Given a choice, I picked dubbed Japanese space adventures like Voltron and Robotech over a nineteenth century family drama like Little House on the Prairie (which I assume remains perpetually in syndicated daytime reruns in Minnesota today).

None of my teachers assigned Little Women. At home, my parents periodically made sure that reading something for fun was part of my brother and I’s summer, but this usually meant a trip to the library or bookstore to pick whatever we were excicted about. One exception was Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn which my parents assigned one summer ahead of an educational family road trip down the Mississippi (Mark Twain’s classics are a good foil for Little Women in Rioux’s exploration above, since they are from the same time period and widely taught tales of a typical American boys’ experience assigned to both boys and girls).

As I got older, there must have been a popular renewal of interest in Alcott in 1994 when Gillian Armstrong’s adaptation of Little Women starring Winona Ryder came out. I have no recollection of such a wave then either. I was busy in college that year at the suburban/small town campus of the University of Wisconsin—River Falls. I was meeting new friends who introduced me to the books they were excited about, taking classes on literary theory and the modern novel. My reading list was dominated by the influence of those friends and professors for the next decade. They were mostly men: the friends, the professors, and the imparted canon of influences (I remember men teaching literature and women teaching writing in that English department). Beat writers, the Russians (Dostoevsky and Tolstoy mainly), and some tangents I explored on my own like Camus and Beckett and Ellison. To be sure, there were exceptions. Marilynne Robinson and Toni Morrison come to mind. But no Little Women.

I also recall girlfriends referencing Jo, or talking about the book with their girl friends. But by then we were all struggling to be adults — or at least I was — and making “serious” reading lists of new writers or heavy classics was part of the program. How to make room for a child’s book titled Little Women? Surely whatever lessons a book like that holds are not important to twenty-somethings or thirty-somethings or forty-somethings more than a century later, I might have thought when the book came up.

In the couple of decades since then, it’s become clear that limiting your cultural diet to the perspective of one type of person, just dudes, just white western dudes, is a kind of starvation. It should be obvious, but reading and seeing the world from the perspective of someone with a different body, a different relationship to power will inform your actions towards people unlike you. This is true on both sides of any such difference.

When I wrote more frequently about film in the mid-2000s (something I suppose I’m dipping my toes in to again with this post), I quickly joined in the culture writer’s hobby of list-keeping, ranking filmmakers and films, naming favorites and creating top tens. Once I started down this road, it quickly bled over in to my music and book habits. Once you’ve put ten filmmakers, ten musicians, or ten authors in your journal or spreadsheet, it is hard not to notice your blind spots. Either you decide you are someone who lives and dies by Tarantino and Kubrick, Trent Reznor and Mick Jagger, David Foster Wallace and Charles Bukowski — or you ask what is missing from your list, what your cultural blind spots are, what other people have on their lists that you haven’t yet stopped to consider. Maybe Agnes Varda, Patti Smith, and Margaret Atwood should be in the mix. Maybe they’re closer to the top of the list. What else is missing? Can I dig deeper? What can I learn?

Many of my friends — especially women — who grew up under the same kinds of influences I’ve just outlined now avoid reading men altogether, or are in book clubs organized around doing so. After a year or two of consciously alternating between books by those who don’t identify as male and those who do, I’ve taken a more fluid approach. I know that if I blindly take in acclaimed books and films and pursue threads of reference from one artist to the next, the scale quickly tips towards perspectives and backgrounds I’ve heard plenty from in my life. So I keep lists in notebooks and in Goodreads (and Lightbox for film) of what I’ve finished and what I’m excited to take on next, reviewing the lists as I go to make sure I’m taking in a diverse and challenging set of perspectives. It takes work, but it’s worth it.

So what’s my take on Little Women after finally having read the book and seen Gerwig’s adaptation? Loved both. Gerwig’s timeline and pacing are a delight if the book is fresh in your mind. The departures she takes from the book are light and perfectly in keeping with our understanding of Alcott’s life as a writer, and Jo’s relationship to publishing within the book. Highly recommend.

Thanks for reading!

If you like posts like this, there are a number of ways you can support Erik and Future Cartographic.

Categories
process

What is the Conversation You Want To Be Having?

This was my friend Danny’s question to me years ago when I was struggling to balance my identity as both an artist and a consultant. To find clients, it seemed necessary to put my most commercially valuable experience out there front and center. Coding, project management, Photoshop and digital marketing were far more likely to pay the rent than experiments in situationist-inspired speculative fiction. If I could only get enough attention for the work I was not excited about, then I could start doing the work I was excited about. Or so went my faulty reasoning.

A few years later, I was having one of the kinds of conversations I want to be having. I was talking to a new friend, Garnette, at a writers’ residency. He was pressing me on certain things that I felt were holding me back as a writer. The constant need to sell my more commercial skills came up again. But I also spoke of the tiny market for creative writing and how this scarcity crept in to the writing process, even when my instinct was to be more experimental. Though almost no one is making a living off writing, it is hard not to keep in mind conventions about acceptable styles, word counts and book formats. Garnette’s advice was twofold. One: write the book you want to write. And two: writers succeed as part of a conversation. The conversation is the goal. Publishing, relationships, opportunities all flow out from the conversations you engage with. The most important question to answer is, “what conversation do you want to be a part of?”

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Categories
nonfiction

One Year Ago Today

10 a.m. // By random lot the next hour in my posting queue happens to include this day one year ago, November 13. And so, please remember that one year ago today the alley reeked of garbage and stale beer. It doesn’t always. Today — the first sustained sub-freezing morning of the winter of 2019 — odors are faint and distant. When the wind picks up, fresh asphalt, perhaps being trucked to a construction site, carries before resistance to the icy air overpowers my ability to focus on the sense of smell.

Also on this day in 2018, a friend and her boyfriend were on their way to the metro and I tried for the first time to explain why I was standing outside in the cold in an inhospitable place with a notebook. The explanation hasn’t gotten easier a year later.

Neither of these facts made it in to our collage for the 10 o’clock hour. Katherine’s lines suggest the cold puddles I’ve written about here, but the text sampled comes from an hour later on a different morning. We’ll encounter “mom with stroller / hey hey hey no jumping” again when it comes time to write about 11 a.m. The more mundane hours easily bleed together, and notes from early in the project were not as diligently set apart. //

I’ve not been posting these notes prompted by the Half/Life collaboration daily as I originally intended. There are 24 to post, and when I began there were about 24 days left before we’d intended to take the paintings off the walls and leave H-Space vacant. But leaving an art space vacant is a sad thing and a waste in a city so starved for such venues. With nothing programmed after us (the space’s parent organization Hamiltonian Artists is going through some restructuring), we’ve left the show up (viewable by appointment, send me a message if you’d like to stop by). Without the urgency of an end date, I’ve been giving each of these posts more time to marinate.

I am posting these writings both on Instagram and on the relaunched FutureCartographic.org. This new version of Future Cartographic will be a home for creative writing, for art engaged with place and time, and for building community with anyone interested in such things, including contemplation of last years’ stale beer puddles. It’s not for everybody. But it might be for you. Stop by, and drop me a note if you do.


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, on view at H-Space in Washington, DC (on view indefinitely as of this posting). Contact Erik to schedule a visit. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

Thanks for reading!

If you like posts like this, there are a number of ways you can support Erik and Future Cartographic.

Categories
nonfiction

Watching the Detectives

3 a.m. // Often while observing my neighborhood for these writings, I can’t help but observe the cops. They of course also observe, though much more conspicuously. At times I felt an urge to erase these stories from the Half/Life project, to walk to another part of the block, to tell a different story. But on the walks between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. they were so often present, idling at the end of the alley, shaping the psycho-social dynamic of fully a third of the clock hours that this dance of watching the cops watch the street and then watching the street in the place of the cops repeated over and over and became the story.

I found it hard not to feel that my act of observing was cop-like as I stood conspicuously in spots where nobody other than police lingers, writing in my notebook at odd hours. Sometimes, as I waited for observations to strike me, I thought of scenes in detective noir films where the private eye waits under a streetlight. Anything could happen. Will my informant show up at the rendezvous point to whisper secrets? Or did she or he flip, inspiring the mob boss to send thugs speeding this way to spray the corner with machine gun fire? And what exactly does the neighbor peering through the Venetian blinds think when she sees the detective out at random hours again and again? Some passers-by give me a look that seems to question or wonder if I’m up to no good. Do they think I’m a drug dealer, a fence, a pimp? But no, criminals tend not to keep notebooks, or so I would assume. Some kind of undercover agent? If not police then perhaps a city inspector. Bureau of alcohol regulations. Nuisance remediation administration. Vice minding council.

Last night I watched the cops again as I brushed my teeth in my warm apartment with the lights out. A squad car pulled in just then. After scanning the alley it turned around and positioned itself in the familiar spot, hood just barely jutting in to foot traffic. The squad car’s row of rooftop floodlights then lit up U Street with an ugly cold white glare. Antithesis of the sleepy cold November Monday night calm of the scene until that moment. Like florescent lights coming on at a nightclub. A driver innocently stopped at the red light raised his arm and averted his eyes from the painful flood of extreme brightness, his car’s interior suddenly on view to the world. Passengers on a city bus squinted to see what caused the police to activate such hostile tech, but their ride soon moved on. Three officers in black uniforms, METROPOLITAN POLICE in white letters on their backs climbed out of the car. One man lifted plastic bags and set them down on the squad car’s trunk. Another unsheathed steaming boxes and passed them out. A dinner conversation in the cold shadows made invisible by excessive use of light. //


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, on view at H-Space in Washington, DC (on view indefinitely as of this posting). Contact Erik to schedule a visit. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

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Categories
nonfiction

Voyeur

3 p.m. // Caring starts with noticing and acknowledging those around you. This was a big theme of these walks — noticing and acknowledging people and details easily missed.

9 1/2 Street is often a backdrop for photo shoots. Girls change outfits in cars and shoot photo after photo that end up where? On Instagram? In fashion school portfolios? Headshot photographers arrange professionals in confident poses against brick walls in shots destined for LinkedIn. Recently the 2020 Census shot on location here using an athletic bearded white actor to portray a homeless person. These photographers are using this place as a stand-in for the generic idea of a gritty urban environment. Noticing my neighbors, the details of this place, noticing me, noticing actual homeless people is an inconvenient distraction on these kinds of projects.

At the same time, noticing too much can be unwelcome. Part of the draw of cities — and of nightlife districts in particular — is the illusion that it is possible to be lost and anonymous here, to go unnoticed. Crowds, music, darkness, and the unfamiliar grant us permission to experiment with trying on new selves, with release, with finding new people to be alone with, together with, or both. The camera and the scribe with his notebook shatter this illusion. What happens on U Street might not stay on U Street, or so the questioning looks of passers-by seemed to suggest. Then again, those who noticed the scribe were also acknowledging, taking a curious step forward, meeting halfway, towards caring.


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, on view at H-Space in Washington, DC (on view indefinitely as of this posting). Contact Erik to schedule a visit. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

Thanks for reading!

If you like posts like this, there are a number of ways you can support Erik and Future Cartographic.

Categories
nonfiction

What Are You In To?

4 a.m. // Four a.m. is the hour I am least likely to be up and out and observing sharply. It is an hour for sleepwalking and hazy minds. To engage the residents of four a.m. with a clear-eyed 10 a.m. voice is to speak nonsense. Better to let the dream state unfold. The sun will rise soon enough.


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, which remains on view at H-Space in Washington, DC indefinitely (as of this posting). Contact Erik to schedule a visit. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

Thanks for reading!

If you like posts like this, there are a number of ways you can support Erik and Future Cartographic.

Categories
nonfiction

Life Support

6 a.m. // I’m up and outside more often during the 6 a.m. hour than most people. I like to get a quick walk or a run in early. But I tend to follow familiar routes, tend to be focused internally rather than on the world around me. On my usual early walks, I would have missed most everything recorded in Half/Life’s 6 a.m. observations.

Summer’s 6 a.m. scene held far more drama than I had any right to expect on a Sunday morning just steps from my apartment. But even this I would have missed had I not held awkwardly to space in the middle of the scene.

The 6 a.m. of winter that wound up in our collage was more typical. A Thursday morning. No humans in sight. Just the sound of the machines that keep us going.


One of 24 posts inspired by Half/Life, which remains on view at H-Space in Washington, DC through October 31, 2019. Contact Erik to schedule a visit. Paintings and zine on sale now in the Future Cartographic shop.

Thanks for reading!

If you like posts like this, there are a number of ways you can support Erik and Future Cartographic.