I read a lot of stuff on the web, and while a lot of it flies by, some of it sticks or leads me onto other things. From time to time it’s nice to go back through the links and tabs I’ve saved and share the good ones.
It wouldn’t make sense to just publish my Pocket queue. Some things exist only in my phone browser. Some goes to Pocket where it may languish for months. Others get sent straight to my Kindle* to be read before I go to sleep.
Here’s what’s been occupying my mind and eyeballs in recent weeks.
Amelia Tait wrote this great piece on her electronic diary. It struck a chord because I too have the majority of my diaries from 2002 to present in an electronic form and it means I can instantly look up places, people, moods… And it’s a blessing and a curse. This kind of article would have been invaluable when doing my university project, and reading things like it always makes me want to return to that area of study.
Adam Elkus’ blog was yet another nice one I found on my recent trawl of Kicks Condor’s HrefHunt or that Hacker News thread. I enjoyed a few of his posts, but one that held my attention was this recent one about the videogame DOOM. Something about these sort of very in-depth posts is so enjoyable to read. One person giving their thoughts, impressions, insight and expertise on a (sort-of but not-really) niche subject.
Very related, Sophie Haskins‘ website pizzabox.computer (god I am actually starting to love these new TLDs when they’re used well) documents her quest to investigate slim workstation computers (in a so-called pizzabox form factor :3!). I had Sophie’s blog in my RSS feeds from a while back and I was so glad to see a new post for the first time in over a year. Her latest post covers setting up NeXTstep on a HP machine in enjoyably verbose detail – in a very chilled, conversational style which I loved. Even better, she also made a video of this process presented in a similar style which, she teases, should be the first of more to come. Bring it on.
This New Yorker piece on device addiction struck a chord. It was sent my way by Sean Bonner and his excellent email newsletter. The initial mentions of life in north west London were interesting, and the wider concepts discussed tend to make for an fascinating subject. Really interesting to read about the century-old book which explored similar themes of disconnection from human touch. I’m afraid I didn’t know much about the piece’s author, Oliver Sacks, and so it was especially poignant to learn at the end that this had been published posthumously.
*Some such items, like this recent longform piece on Instagram which I didn’t love but didn’t hate, lead to my Kindle’s screensaver having the most incongruous/weird/soothing/serendipitous images displayed on my bedside table:
At some point towards the end of the year, I decided that January should be filled with interesting little things to look forward to, and we began week four thusly: attending a Michael Palin event at the Owl bookshop in Kentish Town. I had discovered the event by browsing the Daunt Books website, and just assumed I had missed out and barely considered looking to see if tickets were still available – and they were.
I try and go to see Michael Palin doing whatever he might be doing in London – book readings, Q&As, screenings of films he helped make, or whatever. He’s just very good value no matter what he’s doing. This one was a reading slash re-telling of his North Korea trip a couple of years ago which spawned a TV show for Channel 5 and a book of his journals.
I’ve seen Palin do his own talks by himself, and I’ve seen him do a sort of double-header with another writer or broadcaster, and I’ve seen him ‘in conversation with’ a host of sorts. Fortunately this was him on his own – other events can be a bit disappointing as they can stick to the script a bit, or worse they exist to inflate the host’s ego as they ask knowing questions and don’t give their guest a chance to shine.
Palin stood for an hour and delivered a funny, informative, sharp and very accurate telling of the trip he embarked upon to North Korea and it was just lovely to be in his presence, telling his own story at his own pace. There followed a brief Q&A, and then a chance to get signed copies of the book. I had brought along my own, itself a gift from M which she had already inscribed. She pushed me to get it signed and I’m glad she did.
As we neared the head of the queue, we could see that he was signing the title page, but M’s inscription was on the inside front cover. We thought it would be fun to get him to sign that page – and indeed it was, as he added a nicely personalised note referencing the fact that he was barging in to sign it along with M’s own message, but that it is his book after all.
While he did this, I badgered him briefly about my diary project that I had done for my degree – along with a number of other correspondents, Palin had contributed to the project by completing an online survey about diary-keeping habits. Amongst the tick box responses were longer free text boxes for responses to open questions, and it had been a thrill to get his Palin-esque responses to my project questions along with those of the others.
Despite me just being one of a number of people queuing up to get a book signed, he thoughtfully responded to my diary ramblings by asking if I knew about the projects run/housed by the Bishopsgate Institute, which was really great to hear.
It was a great evening, and the bonus was seeing just how healthy and sharp he is, and I’m so grateful that these events happen with the regularity that they do and that I’m able to attend some of them.
It was all the more poignant, then, that later that week we learned that Palin’s good friend Terry Jones had died after a slow decline. Sad news indeed. Always a knock to the heart to hear of heroes and legends passing on.
Later in the week, with tensions in the office running a little high for my liking, I scoured the map for a route to stroll at lunchtime.
To my delight, just ten minutes away from my office is, if not quite open fields, a small farm and a field home to two friendly goats.
I spent a few minutes introducing myself.
The walk had taken me past an impressive statue called La Delivrance (known locally as ‘the naked lady’, and a nickname so well-established that the information board even says so, rather damning the imagination and culture of the locals, I’d say).
I had forgotten how important it is to strike out and discover new places nearby when your mind is starting to get a bit clogged up with more familiar issues. It wasn’t all goats and bronze breasts and buttocks though, as another version of this lunchtime walk merely led me along the length of a filthy, flytipped water course delightfully named Mutton Brook but looking for all the world like a rainwater drain leading from a municipal dump.
Regardless, I will continue to try and find new paths to follow in familiar places. I found a neat online map that attempts to show you how far you can roam from a central point using various types of transport including walking.
(Related: I started following the #fieldrecording tag on Instagram and saw a nice post from a guy reflecting how he used to take lunchtime walks from his office in New York or San Francisco – round trips of an hour – recording the sounds along the way. Perhaps I’m missing the point but I fear if I did that, all I’d get is the full drone of traffic and the occasional honking horn – but it struck me as an idea worth considering.)
At the weekend, driven by this desire to look at maps and forge routes, I sketched out a rough cycle route from home heading north and away from the city, through suburbia to a place near Cockfosters tube station which had surprised us with its rural beauty on a previous London LOOP walk.
This cycle route north had been floating around in my head for some time and the thought was catalysed by re-reading some notes in my notebook from a visit to the London Metropolitan Archives a year ago.
Whilst flicking through copies of a century-old local newspaper that covered the activities of local groups looking for evidence of Charles Wade’s involvement with amateur dramatics, I found reference to a 1915 cycle ride from Golders Green to Letchworth – from the Garden Suburb to the Garden City – taking in Welwyn on the way as a point of politeness, as well as other stops en route.
I was captivated by this striking out, this group of cycle pioneers hitting the road one Sunday to head north through open country, touch base with their distant cousins, and head back in time for supper.
I just had to plot this route in Strava, hoping that there might still be some remains of the route they must have taken. I’m not an idiot – I know the roads have changed enormously in a hundred years, particularly in north west London – but I wanted to see if I could game the route-finding software a little to uncover the kinds of smaller roads they might have used – and which might still be usable today.
Inevitably it followed a route I sort of recognised, past work, and on upwards to the north. To my delight, it passed near to Monken Hadley, the charming stretch of village and countryside to the west of Cockfosters that I had hoped to revisit by bike. This was all the encouragement I needed to try out a bike ride like this – and I thought the full Letchworth round trip of more than 100km in one day was possibly something best left for a later date.
This led, ultimately, to M and I setting out from home, cycling my route to work, then up and on into the unknown. Unfortunately, though there are roads leading in almost any direction one could wish for from these parts, they tend to be badly potholed, busy (even on a Saturday), and full of buses and other traffic. They are, for the most part, not built for cyclists.
Occasional cyclist-friendly bits are found, but these little oases are few and far between, and the lasting memory is of roads unfit for all the traffic that is capable of using them, and occasional instances of actually having to dismount to cross in order to safely navigate a junction. It can feel a little demeaning.
There were, of course, nice bits. Parts not retro-fitted into including a cycle path, but merely decently-wide roads that were quiet and smooth and pleasant to ride, with good signposting and big, safe junctions to cross. At moments like those, it was made slightly easier to imagine the Sunday ride from a hundred years ago.
But we made it to Monken Hadley, after various north London high streets and dips in and out of suburbia. And it felt great to have returned to a place that we’d before now only taken a tube and a walk to. This is a feeling of satisfaction I’ve found in various unexpected places – as though ‘conquering’ familiar places where before I had had to rely on public transport or the kindness of others to visit or pass through. Getting there on your own two wheels can feel like such an achievement.
The carrot on the stick of this endeavour had been the silky, open roads through Monken Hadley and its neighbouring settlements and countryside. The irony was that the worst parts of the journey were the ones that took us longest to navigate. The good bits flew by as our pedals spun. We headed straight into the woods to retrace the London LOOP where it became a bridleway. Our last visit had been towards the end of a long day, and with the light fading we kept up a quick pace towards the tube station and home. This time we found a body of open water alongside a golf course and ate our sandwiches in the drizzle as a family walked past in wellington boots and waterproofs.
The ride back was, as it so often can be, a bit smoother, with familiar roads and the known elements of the trip feeling less unending than the unknown had on the way up.
Despite the annoyances, it did still feel like a small achievement. I’m sure I’ll try and do something similar again. Plus, the desire to take the bikes out on a commuter train to the home counties and hit the road is always there.
I was talking to someone the other day about the concept of lifelogging. This isn’t that unusual; I keep strange company. Oddly enough though, the term had popped into my head just the morning before – as these sorts of things often do, when one least expects it. I had quickly jotted it down as I realised I wanted to consider it further, and I was bound to forget about it again.
I knew I was bound to forget about it as I realised I hadn’t thought of the term for many months. Possibly even years. It’s not a thing that has occurred to me in ages. And I think I know why.
Lifelogging, in certain examples, was the term applied to clipping a semi-autonomous gadget to oneself that records audio/video/images at intervals which are then indexed and searchable. A sort of memory extension. There were a few examples of this product, including the Memoto in c.2012, and more recently the Google Clip.
More generally, lifelogging was the term applied to deliberately recording stuff like one’s step count, photos taken, and various other metadata, usually on a huge scale. The problem, it seems to me, was always making sense of that data. Not a problem, of course – better to amass the data first and analyse it later. Or, form a startup, amass the data, then fold and delete the data.
Anyway, as soon as the term reappeared in my consciousness, I assumed it had faded out of common use, and Google Trends implies the same:
Interestingly, the term ‘quantified self’ – which always seemed to me the colder, spikier, more tech-y, less warm, fuzzy, and human of the two terms – shows a similar curve in Google Trends, but was apparently more commonly used. It also appears to have emerged ever so slightly later than lifelogging did. But they both share the same rise and fall in usage, according to Google:
And I guess I know why: lifelogging is something most of us do now, almost by default. I’m guessing the peaks above are the tipping point where ‘most’ people’s smartphones did all this stuff for us without needing to really consider it.
Our smartphones log our location data – usually by default – all the photos we take are backed up and indexed surprisingly well using AI to guess the content, and using EXIF tags to log the location. And most smartphones seem to include some sort of health recording, even if just step count – with some folks using devices like a Fitbit or Apple Watch to record such data more deliberately.
I think what I’m trying to say is that we’re probably doing more lifelogging than ever – we’re just not calling it that any more.
I’ve been thinking lately about certain kinds of diaries – both the paper kind, and their digital descendants*. More specifically, it’s the kind that enables, allows, or encourages reflection on previous entries.
On the paper front, we have the five year diary. I’m not sure who first came up with the format, but it’s usually small, and each page has five blocks left blank for a new entry on each.
The idea is that you write your daily entry on each fresh page. A year later, you’re back on the same page, and you enter the corresponding day’s entry in the box below.
And so on.
You end up with a diary that holds five years of (quite brief) diary entries. More than any other diary format, you end up almost unable to ignore the musings of one or more years previously on the same day.
(These diaries are sometimes alternatively branded as ‘One Line a Day’ or, ‘A Thought a Day’.)
It’s a neat idea, and one I’ve often thought I’d like to try, not just for the novel format, but also for the enforced restriction on each entry’s length.
The feature of revealing previous entries one year on is also prevalent in the digital descendants of diaries that many people now use. These include Facebook’s ‘On This Day feature’, and the app Timehop, whose raison d’être is to show you stuff you posted online a year ago (and two, and three, and so on).
The feature is also present in the cross-platform diary app Journey, which can optionally present you with a random post from your archive from that day in the past.
Even more than the five year diary, these digital tools can utterly bombard you with such content. The paper-based five year diary (or the ‘line’, or ‘thought’ a day, remember), inherently limits the entry’s length. So one might end up with quite ‘light’ entries. They could also be very blunt – but they’d be brief, at least.
On the other hand, I know I personally stopped using both Facebook and Timehop’s ‘on this day’ features due to the sheer cognitive overload of what it dredges up.
This is, of course, my own fault.
If I posted thirty or so updates on a given day (and, maybe, possibly, have done so for ten years or more…), then to be confronted with 250+ individual posts every morning is simply too much to take in. Too much to even scroll through, let alone digest.
Further, what does all this mean? What meaning am I to read into this stuff, simply because it happened a year hence? Years are very arbitrary, of course. But there are bound to be some similarities: comments on seasonal weather conditions; the marking of annual festivals and anniversaries. Possibly, even, similar moods affected by those same seasons and festivals. But beyond that it is, essentially, random what will be shown.
The obvious point I’ve avoided so far is the possibility that one will be presented with an unpleasant memory. A hard break-up. A terrible episode in one’s life. The death of a loved one. Losing a job.
Of course, all these things may have their place in a person’s diary/life routine. They may be used to reflect and build upon. But it’s not for nothing that Facebook, for example, gives some fairly blunt tools to remove On This Day posts that involve a named person – an ex-partner, perhaps.
Equally, being confronted with relentlessly positive, cheery entries from years in the past may compound one’s feeling of their golden years slipping away, and add to a feeling of enveloping gloom.
Facebook and Timehop are bound to colour a reader’s thoughts with so much stuff being thrown back at them in one go. And so it follows that if, when you go to your diary app, or your five year journal, and you’re confronted with an old entry, surely your new entry will be influenced by that. Possibly that’s even the whole point of using such a tool, as a means of reflection and growth.
Whatever the cause or reason for embracing such a tool, I’ve been trying to come up with a name for the phenomenon by which one’s new or current diary entry is directly impacted by the content of a previous one. I alighted on the term ‘transference’, simply because it popped up in a recent random Reddit post about whether psychologists, in turn, need psychologists to deal with all the stuff they hear. Looking up what transference means, I’m not sure it’s quite the right phrase. But it’s close.
Occasionally, a single passage from a single diary entry can floor you. This one from Virginia Woolf was quoted at Diaryfest recently and I just love it so much:
Wednesday June 13th, 1923
“…and then I went to Golders Green and sat with Mary Sheepshanks in her harden and beat up the waters of talk, as I do so courageously, so that life mayn’t be wasted.”
That turn of phrase – to beat up the waters of talk – is just so evocative and stirring! One thinks of conversing in this style, like being waist-deep in water, slapping the surface chaotically, stirring things up. One can imagine the disapproving looks on the faces of nearby bathers…
But this entry – this singular turn of phrase – isn’t the first time Woolf’s diaries have stopped me in my tracks.
From Michael Palin’s diary of 11 September 1985, he notes another of her clever observations:
“Have been dipping into V Woolf’s extraordinary diaries over the last few days and found a neat phrase – to ‘rout the drowse’. Sounds like street talk, in fact it describes what a good walk does for her creative energy. So, as I feel increasingly addled, I eventually go for a run, which routs the drowse most effectively.”
I’ve referred to this passage before somewhere. But it’s too good not to share, particularly in tandem with the other quote above. Whether beating up the waters of talk or merely routing the drowse, Woolf never fails to impress.
On a related note, I was immediately drawn to the above quote due to its mention of Golders Green, near to where I work. Indeed, the quote goes on: “the fresh breeze went brushing all the thick hedges which divide the gardens,” which immediately makes me think the passage refers to a meeting either just within Hampstead Garden Suburb or just without; hedge-lined gardens remain a prominent feature – indeed, a requirement – of most Suburb homes a century on.