Upon completion of the final draft of my latest novel three years ago, I sent out an e-mail to my family and closest friends. Subject heading: “What Has Mark Been Doing for the Last Six Years?” The message field was empty. The e-mail contained nothing but the following image.

Those manuscript pages, towering at six inches, said it all. Though my book wouldn’t appear in hardcover for another year or so, it had already become gloriously material. (Actually, the book started out materially, as I generated the first draft entirely by longhand, but there had been a long, sensory-deprived period of computer entry.)

I’ve always been somewhat uncomfortable with the term Word-processing. To me, its connotations are too industrial. I picture language mashed into paste, dunked in preservatives, and canned for a lengthy shelf-life.

(What term might we substitute? Anything measurably less utilitarian. Word-pruning? Word-arranging? Word-massaging?)

But my aversion, I suppose, extends beyond the jargon itself to the technology that spawned it. As noted in prior posts, I can take only so much of staring at a screen, watching the phantasmal flash of the cursor, straining to translate my inward human imaginings into ciphers of inhuman electronic light.

Paper is better. You can feel a clean white page. Each new leaf is cool to the touch. It crackles in the hands. It is of the body. On the page, the inwardly human becomes outwardly human — no cyber-middleman required. And for the novelist, a pile of papers is a thing of beauty, signifying a task slowly and inarguably surmounted, a vision taking physical form.

For these reasons I’ve recently invested in a technological downgrade of unparalleled value. Here’s a photo:

That’s right, a Royal H-H Typewriter, circa 1958.

While I’m still in the longhand stage of my new novel’s composition — and will eventually have to, ahem, word-process, the Royal allows me to get a clean (well, clean enough) printout without submitting to the numbing cursor.

Here, in summary, are a few valuable benefits — creative and I daresay spiritual — found in this “downgrade”:

1. Eschewing instantaneousness.
It’s a long, hard road one must walk when writing a novel. Patience becomes a most useful virtue. But instantaneousness, or a technology that predisposes you to it, is counterproductive. Spontaneity, okay. An adventuresome spirit, sure. But good books aren’t generally written quickly.

2. Producing hard copy as you go.
Typewritten pages provide a record of the creative process, a physical imprint direct from the imagination, a trail of decisions and revisions made along the way. This can be invaluable when it turns out that your inner editor has overstepped his bounds. Give him use of a computer’s Backspace key and that guy’ll expunge everything.

3. Avoiding repetitive-stress injury.
The Royal H-H is a twenty-pound hunk of metal with innards of good ol’ fashioned, elegantly designed moving parts. You’ve got to employ fingers and arms in a variety of interesting ways to work this machine. Every new page requires hand-loading, alignment, and knob-twisting advancement. The carriage return demands that you lift a hand from the keys after every line. The Royal keeps you limber.

4. Stimulating the senses.
Unlike staring at a screen, staring at a piece of paper rolled snugly against the platen threatens no deleterious effects upon your eyesight. What’s more, you can whiff the typewriter ribbon and the oiled key-hammers. You can delight in the rewarding chime at the end of each line, followed by the clickety-slide of the carriage return. (The whimsical musicality of the typewriter is celebrated delightfully here.)

5. Opportunity for further consideration, revision, refining.
Once the typewriter draft is done, I must re-type the entire manuscript into a computer document for ease of transmission, copy-edits, book design, etc. This provides further ample opportunity to review the work and weigh the choices I’ve made.

Well, enough hobby writing.

(This post clatters forth from the Soul Shelter archives)

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Unleashing Ideas: A Four-Fold Approach

As an Internet and Virtual Reality trailblazer, Jaron Lanier helped to change the world as we know it. Now he wants to do it again, only this time by advocating for reform of the online culture he in part created.

In his book You Are Not a Gadget: A Manifesto, published last month, Lanier gives an impassioned call for a renewed Internet characterized by technological humanism, intellectual modesty on the part of technologists, and civility of discourse by all who log on. In other words, in his view the Web ought to be about—and its designs ought to encourage and empower:

• Individuals rather than ads;
• Decorum and exchange rather than mean-spiritedness and polarization;
• Unique, idiosyncratic voices rather than an anonymous hive;
• Original creative expression rather than rehashes and mashups (what Lanier calls “Second-order expression”);
• Artistic entrepreneurship rather than the Web-giveaways of thought, labor, and creativity now expected in our “crowd-sourced” world.

Where the trendsetters of today’s Internet (“Web 2.0”) extol its liberating, ultra-democratic spirit, pointing to Social Media (Facebook, etc.) and Open Culture (Wikipedia, etc.), Lanier fears an Internet that institutionalizes bad Web design and a Web-mentality that celebrates constrictive, data-centric technology over infinite human creativity, and does so largely because that technology serves advertising and thus enriches data-gatherers and “cloud-lords” (those few technologists who’ve cornered the market on connecting the crowds).

Writes Lanier:

The central mistake of recent digital culture is to chop up a network of individuals so finely that you end up with a mush. You then start to care about the abstraction of the network more than the real people who are networked, even though the network by itself is meaningless. Only the people were ever meaningful.

That’s Lanier’s sharp left hook to the jaw of “cybernetic totalism,” the predominant religion of Silicon Valley. Cybernetic totalists believe in “the noosphere … a collective consciousness [that] emerges from all the users on the Web,” and also in “The Singularity,” a kind of techno-Rapture which involves “people dying in the flesh and being uploaded into a computer and remaining conscious.”

No kidding.

The cybernetic totalists live to serve their faith by implementing Web designs that nourish the crowd, the “digital cloud,” a super-consciousness before which the point of view of the individual human ceases to matter. The Cloud, at any given moment, knows all that mankind can ever know. The implications of such beliefs are vast. It follows, for instance, that instead of books, we will have one global book authored by this electronic super-consciousness (i.e. by everybody and thus…nobody).

Sound a little bit like technological fascism? Alas, how blurry grows the line between creative/social idealism and destructive folly!

A half century ago Aldous Huxley wrote the following in Brave New World Revisited. In light of the ascendant culture criticized in You Are Not a Gadget, do you find Huxley’s words as chilling as I do?

A new Social Ethic is replacing our traditional ethic system—the system in which the individual is primary. The key words in this Social Ethic are ‘adjustment,’ ‘adaptation,’ socially oriented behavior,’ ‘belongingness,’ ‘acquisition of social skills,’ ‘team work,’ ‘group living,’ ‘group loyalty,’ ‘group dynamics,’ ‘group thinking,’ ‘group creativity.’ Its basic assumption is that the social whole has greater worth and significance than its individual parts. … However hard they try, men cannot create a social organism, they can only create an organization. In the process of trying to create an organism they will merely create a totalitarian despotism.

In the dominant ideology now shaping the Internet, the Cloud is all. And the Cloud, specifically, is the Crowd.

Lanier argues that current software designs (“Twitter’s adoration of fragments ; Facebook…organizing people into multiple-choice identities; Wikipedia eras[ing] point of view entirely”) implicitly encourage us to depersonalize ourselves, to reduce to base technological definitions important human things like friendship, individual expression, and personal attributes. We’re each coaxed to become but a facet of the Crowd, to dissolve into digital ether, no longer characterized, no longer really human, but wholly Cloud. “Authorship…is not a priority of the new ideology,” hence: “the digital flattening of expression into a global mush.”

Lanier revolts:

It is true that by using [online] tools individuals can author books or blogs or whatever, but people are encouraged by the economics of free content, crowd dynamics, and lord aggregators to serve up fragments instead of considered whole expressions or arguments. …The one collective book will absolutely not be the same thing as the library of books by individuals it is bankrupting. Some believe it will be better; others, including me, believe it will be disastrously worse.

And here, knowingly or not, he goes on to echo Huxley:

Any singular, exclusive book, even the collective one accumulating in the cloud, will become a cruel book if it is the only one available.

The medium is the message, indeed. In a modern world that lives by and worships technology, one ideology or another will prove a force we can’t ignore. So it turns out that questions as seemingly arcane as online design bear strongly on the universal matters of freedom, democracy, cultural well-being, and spiritual health.

As the great cultural critic Neil Postman asked,

Can a nation preserve its history, originality, and humanity by submitting itself totally to the sovereignty of a technological thought-world?

Lanier, who in many ways fits Postman’s description of a technological “resistance fighter,” explores those big societal questions throughout his book, and outlines the dispiriting new economic order resulting from Web 2.0: a broad disenfranchisement of artists and creative entrepreneurs; i.e. of culturally enriching creative expression.

If some free video of a silly stunt will draw as many eyeballs as the product of a professional filmmaker on a given day, then why pay the filmmaker? If an algorithm can use cloud-based data to unite those eyeballs with the video clip of the moment, why pay editors or impresarios?

Specifically, Lanier sees an emergent generation of unpaid “digital peasants,” those who labor and think in service to the so-called “noosphere,” even while disempowered—and largely dehumanized—by the decisions of digital lords, rulers of the Cloud. His outrage is heartening:

It is utterly strange to hear my many old friends in the world of digital culture claim to be the true sons of the Renaissance without realizing that using computers to reduce individual expression is a primitive, retrograde activity, no matter how sophisticated your tools are.

Personally I part company with Lanier toward his conclusion, where his techie fervor stirs him to swooning descriptions of the ultimate entertainment: computerized alternate worlds, immersive virtual realms yet to be realized. Admittedly, Virtual Reality can serve us in obviously constructive ways, for example its use in surgical procedures, but Lanier’s boosterism of the technology for its own sake seems to contradict the general spirit of his book at its close.

Still, You Are Not A Gadget is a brilliant, almost mind-altering read. Though Lanier’s aim may be manifesto, his tone is winningly conversational throughout. We hear the voice of an aggrieved forefather pleading for reason, technological temperance, and good old humanism amid an accelerating technocracy. And he’s not short on constructive ideas, both macro and micro, assuring us there’s still hope for a positive Web renewal because the design mentalities driving Web 2.0 are not yet incontrovertibly locked-in, not quite. The way of the “noosphere” needn’t necessarily be our future.

But how is the average non-techie Internet user to help shift the cultural tide?

There are things you can do to be a person instead of a source of fragments to be exploited by others …

—and proposed within an encouraging list of creative ideas, Lanier offers this antidote to the fetish of fragments and bits (it’s representative of the book’s constructive spirit):

Write a blog post that took weeks of reflection before you heard the inner voice that needed to come out.

With Soul Shelter’s modus operandi so nicely endorsed, how could we fail to sing the praises of this timely manifesto?

(Read Lanier’s recent op-ed in the Wall Street Journal)

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Is the Internet Dangerous? (Part One)

When Connectivity Breeds Loneliness

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Presenting…the Intravidual

Why It’s Desirable to Be Eccentric

John Ruskin on Soulful Imperfection

Once upon a time, a young Apple Computer attorney named Randy Komisar negotiated a deal that might have turned the personal computing industry upside down—and changed the world.

Komisar struck an agreement with Apollo Computer to license the Macintosh operating system. The move was the very embodiment of “Computing for the Rest of Us,” Apple’s Big Idea, the grand and good mission that inspired Apple employees and fans alike. Later Komisar would write:

Along with many others inside Apple, I was a strong proponent of licensing the Macintosh operating system in order to preempt Microsoft in setting the standard for user-friendly computing. After all, it was Apple’s birthright, its overriding mission. It would mean cannibalizing our own model, sacrificing margins for volume and market share, but it seemed better than circling the wagons and defending an ever-declining piece of the PC business.

But at the last minute, John Sculley, the brilliant Pepsi-Cola executive who at Steve Job’s behest famously gave up “selling sugar water” to lead Apple, scuttled the deal. Sculley undercut the company’s greater mission in order to preserve Apple’s high-margin end-to-end hardware/software business model.

Apple’s share of the worldwide personal computer market subsequently plummeted, and today it stands at just under three percent (3%). Would Sculley have made the same decision if he could have known that, years later, the reality of Apple’s vision would be Computing for Three Percent of Us?

No one knows, of course, what might have happened had Apple stuck to its ideals and licensed its operating system. But in The Monk and the Riddle, the best-seller detailing the episode, Komisar illuminates the point by distinguishing between passion and drive. Passion and drive are not the same at all, he writes:

Passion pulls you toward something you cannot resist. Drive pushes you toward something you feel compelled or obligated to do.

Passion pulled Apple Computer toward its mission of making computing available to everyman, but drive forced management to choose predictable profitability and lower risk. Here’s my takeaway: Drive arises from will, passion from the soul.

The distinction is useful. Komisar goes on to make the key point of his book, a rejection of what he calls the “Deferred Life Plan.”

The Deferred Life Plan consists of two steps:

1. Do what you have to do, then

2. Do what you want to do

To achieve the “promise of full coverage under the plan,” writes Komisar, you should divide life into two distinct parts. In Part One you do whatever it takes to become financially secure. In Part Two, you retire and do exactly what you want (it may hardly be necessary to note that the Deferred Life Plan is fueled by drive rather than passion).

The problem, of course, is that those who achieve financial security through drive rather than passion often discover the hollowness of victory. To use a self-help cliché, the success ladder they struggled so hard to climb was leaning against the wrong building.

I experienced this for myself when I sold my company in 2000. I’d started my firm in 1994 based on a passion: exploiting the Internet’s ability to convert high variable communications costs into low fixed costs on behalf of Japanese consumers, who’d long suffered from expensive metered-rate telecommunications services. The Internet also promised a curiously powerful mix of intimacy and anonymity, something perfectly matching the Japanese communication style.

That passion sustained me through the tough early years. Later, as our services were sought by higher and higher profile customers, the exigencies of business—and my drive to succeed—steadily overtook passion. Soon my business became one of helping online retailers sell more, more, more into Japan, Taiwan, and Korea. By the time we sold out, I, too, had “sold out” my Big Idea—my original vision—while fatigue and world-weary “success” blurred my recognition of that very truth. Maybe that’s why Komisar’s story struck me with such force.

Received Western wisdom continues to enthusiastically endorse the Deferred Life Plan, as it has for more than 200 years (see Mark’s post about Charles Lamb’s surprisingly mixed feelings upon his “deliverance” from a life of office drudgery in the early nineteenth century).

Opting out of the Deferred Life Plan is no easy task. It’s a struggle demanding discipline, not just of the will, but of the soul.

(This post appears from the Soul Shelter archives)

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Soul School

I work entirely from home, and unless I make a concerted effort I can go weeks without seeing other human beings face-to-face, save my wife (and soon my child). But because this weird lifestyle helps me remain prolific, today I’ll share a few habits that keep me keeping on.

I believe each of the following points may be applicable to the lifestyle and/or profession of anybody seeking to increase and maintain productivity, whether in the workplace or in some as-yet uncultivated personal or creative aspect of life. So even if you don’t stay at home alone everyday dreaming up characters and writing novels and short stories, take a look.

1. Wake Up Early (Engage the Process)

I get up every weekday at 6:45am. I make my wife’s lunch and see her off to work, then settle into my daily rhythm at the desk, amidst my books and papers. Now, most people have to rise and shine and be at the workplace by 7:30, 8:00, 9:00 a.m., so this may not seem like news. But I include it because for me, waking up early is about more than the literal act of rising from bed in order to arrive at my desk “on time.” It’s about consciously putting my day before me, giving myself the time to envision its many possibilities, then easing into all that possibility with a sense of purpose and an awareness of each day as an incremental accomplishment on the way to a larger goal. The process is more important than the result; without the former there can be no latter.

2. Get Dressed & Put On Your Shoes (Establish a Ritual Act)

I never sit down at the desk without first changing out of my pajamas and slippers. For me, this outer preparation facilitates an inner one. I guess you could call it a ritual act. It helps me feel more focused or centered. Somehow it also validates or elevates my sense of the work I’m going to do. I arrive at the desk feeling put-together, more equal to the challenge, the seriousness, of what’s before me. “Look the part,” they say in the business world. Translated: If you seek a high-powered executive job, you’d better arrive at the interview dressed like a high-powered executive. That’s one element of my meaning here, sure. But more importantly, I’m talking about establishing some active personal ritual, however simple, by which you prepare yourself, body and mind, for immersion into your work.

3. Use an “Isolation Booth” (Nurture Concentration)

There is no greater danger to productivity than distraction. I suspect this is true in many professions. And silence (sometimes soft music) is to the writer what a steady hand is to the surgeon. Concentration and productivity are symbiotic. I believe that the buzzword “multitasking” is merely a benign-sounding synonym for distraction. I’m a big proponent of mono-tasking, and for that very purpose I’ve set up a detached writing studio in my backyard. This studio is unprofaned by the telephone or Internet. It’s my sacrosanct creative space. All one really needs is a designated area, preferably shut off from everything about, where one may focus exclusively on a particular task.

4. Write Longhand (Go Analog)

The advantages of an analog working method are nearly countless. I usually write my first drafts on paper (I filled nine notebooks while working on my last novel). Word processing programs are invaluable later in the writing process, but early on, the backspace key imperils productivity. I produce far more by opening a notebook than by switching on my laptop. Surrendering to the imperfection of the first draft, I escape writerly paralysis. On paper, there’s no “highlight and delete” function, hence no compulsive scrapping of text. Sentences, paragraphs, pages are allowed to accumulate in all their lovely inadequacy. A book takes shape this way, flawed at first, and later sculpted and refined. And I suspect that for all those insufficiencies of the early draft, I am a better writer on paper, because my thoughts move more slowly and each of my imaginings is allowed to deepen in that process. Nuances come to light that I might have missed altogether in the hurried tapping of a keyboard. As a bonus, paper productivity allows me to retain a visible record of all my deletions, in case I should later rethink my first impulses; i.e. ‘This sentence didn’t work in this particular place, but it will go nicely over there!’ Check out Tim’s preachments on the value of avoiding e-mail and turning off your computer.

5. Think Progress, Not Completion (Stay in the Rhythm)

Avoid overwhelming yourself with the magnitude of the task before you. Trust your process. Novelist E.L. Doctorow said:

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

All one can do is orient oneself to the daily act. By putting one’s focus into each moment at hand rather than far out ahead at some hazy eventual destination, one does better and more meaningful work–or, to amend Doctorow’s analogy, one avoids crashing the car.

The Lonely Novelist’s Five Point Productivity Plan is simple, but works for me. Allow me to cap it off with a favorite quote (which you may have seen in a previous post):

Be intent on action, not on the fruits of action. Avoid attraction to the fruits and attachment to inaction.

(This post has resurfaced from the deep Soul Shelter archives)

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This month we ring in Year Number Three for Soul Shelter! Hard to believe we’ve been around so long already — we’ll soon be grayhairs by the standards of the Web.

We’ve grown Soul Shelter slowly and gently these last two years. Every step of the way we’ve sought to make it unfailingly inspirational, helpful, fun, and informative. Now we’d like to ask you, Dear Reader, to help us celebrate our third year.

If you:

• appreciate Soul Shelter’s perspectives
• find yourself awaiting your weekly Soul Shelter epistles
• have ever caught yourself reflecting — offline — on something you read at Soul Shelter

and/or …

• believe we’ve delivered on the Soul Shelter pledge “to provide a stabilizing, reliably worthy alternative” to the breathless chatter of the blogosphere,

then snap on a bright party hat on our behalf and help us make some celebratory noise: Share us with your friends, Tweet us, Stumble us, Digg us, Forward us, Facebook us, link to us, add us to your blogroll, make us your homepage, and otherwise spread the good Soul Shelter news. We’d love to widen our fold, and what better route to new but long-destined readers than through our faithful current ones?

And allow us to thank You, our loyal visitors and subscribers. We’re in your debt. Without your valued readership and comments, we’d have shriveled long ago.

Today, to further mark our anniversary, we offer the following Soul Shelter round-up. Here’s a Best-Of from our first two years — ten posts of which we’re particularly proud. Maybe you missed them the first time around, maybe they’re a good place to start for any new  readers you’d care to point our way.

And maybe you’d like to add your own favorite Soul Shelter post to the list?

Enjoy, and here’s to the good year ahead.

A Message to Those Aspiring to Blend Meaning and Money

Too often, pay doesn’t parallel passion. Fortune falls behind fulfillment. Money and meaning are mismatched. What’s a seeker of reasonable balance to do?

You Don’t Have to Be An Insider

I’m living proof that one needs no golden key or inside connections to pursue the work one most desires. If you find doors closed against you, set your shoulder to them. Push.

Losing a Job, Reclaiming a Life

That mindset — that your well-being and success depends on an organization — just blows me away. Now that I’m older, I see how I’m the one creating value, I’m the one who makes things happen.

Are You An Amateur? Why Not?

Here’s a wonderful but much too uncelebrated means of personal fulfillment and life enrichment: the learning and doing of a thing purely for the love of it — otherwise known as amateurism.

The Rainbow Vanishes

I wanted my kids to understand that someday, all too soon, it would be their father lying before them, cold and lifeless. But they didn’t understand. How could they, when I was just beginning to understand?

The Risk of Happiness

There comes a time when one must recognize that the pursuit of happiness, in its multifarious forms, will always involve a feeling of risk, of embracing a financial or emotional unknown (or sometimes both at once).

Coffee Breakthrough

Dave proudly displayed his brand new, Swiss-made, fully automatic espresso machine, for which he’d slapped down a cool $945. It must be nice to be able to afford a high-end, fully automatic espresso maker, I mused aloud. Dave’s response snapped me to attention. ‘Actually, I can’t afford not to own one.’

The Value of Travel — One Household’s Mild Manifesto

Travel means engaging a larger world, not merely retreating from the one we know. Travel means joining in the human experience.

Time to Give In, Time to Give Up

Suddenly, all bets were off. … Everything was canceled. It was the beginning of Portland’s biggest snowfall in 40 years.

In Defense of Solitude

We modern mortals, like the generations before us, need to be re-set on a regular basis, reconditioned to the natural, non-mechanical pace of the world and of our own souls. Our age-old impulse toward meditation and prayer can itself reveal the intrinsic human impulse toward solitude.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for attending this week’s special Soul Shelter convocation. Now allow me to find my notes. … Ah, here they are.

(Shuffling papers)

Well, before we proceed I must tell you that the view from this podium is lovely. You all look just swell in your evening attire.  Please thank your servers, they’re doing a fine job, aren’t they?

(Applause)

Now for tonight’s introduction:

As regular readers well know, a recurring subject on Soul Shelter is one we refer to somewhat dramatically as Technology versus the Soul. Tonight we convene to formally acknowledge the emergence of an organism which embodies this conflict splendidly.

This organism, already amongst us but hitherto nameless, now bears a title thanks to Mr. Dalton Conley and his new book Elsewhere U.S.A: How We Got From the Company Man, Family Dinners, and the Affluent Society to the Home Office, Blackberry Moms, and Economic Anxiety.

This organism Mr. Conley dubs The Intravidual .

Prophesied more than a decade ago by Sven Birkerts in The Gutenberg Elegies (1998), the characteristics of the Intravidual and the sociological implications of its existence are familiar to us by now. Here’s how Birkerts described them:

We will establish a wide lateral interaction, dealing via screen with more and more people at the same time that our sustained face-to-face encounters diminish. It will be harder and harder — we know this already — to step free of our mediating devices. There will be people who never in their lives have the experience that was, until our time, the norm — who will never stand in isolated silence among trees and stones, out of shouting distance of any other person, with no communication implement, forced to confront the slow, grainy momentum of time passing.

Most of us recall an era of Individualism. We were born in one. We were subject to the laws of time as we waited on the mail, traveled to a friend’s home, or bided the dark hours when the world’s transmissions took a pause. We were subject to ourselves: solitude and privacy were almost unavoidable. We chose and savored them or had them thrust upon us and learned to make the most of them.

Many of us kept journals or diaries, recording and reflecting in sacred secrecy. If we wished, we could clasp the covers shut with tiny locks.

In contrast, today’s Intravidual blogs his thoughts for the world (it is not the purpose of a blog to cultivate privacy). One doesn’t tuck a blog away in a drawer and allow its recorded contemplations to fructify in the soul. The Intravidual clicks “Publish,” watches pixels flash into form, and eagerly awaits comments.

We used to send messages to friends by post, endorsing our salutations with the slow intaglio of the hand and creasing the papers with care. The Intravidual defaults to e-mail (perhaps customized with colored fonts).

We used to relate voice-to-voice by telephone or face-to-face over coffee. The Intravidual defaults to text messages, or connects briefly by voice-mail to alert his correspondents to incoming e-mails. Quickness is crucial, for the Intravidual must maintain countless simultaneous connections to Intraviduals elsewhere and everywhere.

The Intravidual is determined and defined by the efficiency of his gadgets, by his light-speed inclusion in a conversation, an argument, a realm of professed opinion chattering at every hour and encompassing everywhere. The Intravidual exists in a sphere of selves, a sphere that in Mr. Conley’s terms lies perpetually elsewhere– that is, never right here right now. Through his gadgets the Intravidual channels his work directly into his home, once a private space. Fiber optics allow him to constantly import the world and export himself.

Where is nature in this new Intravidualistic order? Where is time, whose constraints once fostered privacy, silence, solitude, which things in turn begat the illuminations of art, religion, and philosophy through the ages?

Faced with what we are becoming, it’s important to recall what we have been. Dictionaries are helpful:

Individual / adj. & n. adj. 1 single 2 particular; special; not general 3 having a distinct character 4 characteristic of a particular person 5 designed for use by one person. n. 1 a single member of a class 2 a single human being as distinct from a family or group 3 colloq. a person (From Middle English = indivisible).

Individual, you might say, is soul. Poet John Keats (1795-1821) described a soul as an Intelligence that has acquired an Identity of its own.

What do we mean by “soul” here at Soul Shelter? I like Birkerts’ definition:

My use of soul is secular. I mean it to stand for inwardness, for that awareness we carry of ourselves as mysterious creatures at large in the universe. The soul is that part of us that smelts meaning and tries to derive a sense of purpose from experience. … Soul is our inwardness, our self-reflectedness, our orientation to the unknown. Soul waxes in private, wanes in public. We feel it, or feel through it, when we are in sacral spaces, when we love, when we respond to natural or artistic beauty.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Intravidual is here. Long live the individual and the soul.*

This concludes our special convocation.

*Some handy tips for cultivating anti-Intravidualism: 1) Try keeping an offline journal, for your eyes only 2) Set a time for powering on, and limit time spent online 3) Write a letter the old-fashioned way 4) Invite a friend for a face-to-face visit, or meet for conversation over coffee 5) Take a walk (longer the better, no connective devices allowed) 6) Read books.

(Thanks to reader Steve for pointing us to Conley’s book.)

(This post appears courtesy of the Soul Shelter archives.)

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“Soul School”

“Is the Internet Dangerous?”

“Why Multitasking Slows Productivity — and What To Do About It”

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“The Hazards of Career, the Rewards of Vocation“

Thanks to my twelve-year-old son’s craving for action flicks, in the past week I saw two extraordinary movies: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen and G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra.

Despite mind-numbing chains of battles and explosions (Transformers was essentially a two-hour-long fight scene), I found both movies, in their own ways, to be strangely soul-affirming.

Wait! Don’t give up on me yet, there’s some explaining to do.

In terms of story and pacing, Transformers was, well, awful. Watching it was like listening to mindless, high volume, fast-tempo disco music for two hours nonstop. While the kids stayed riveted to the screen, I got bored and my wife went to sleep, despite the racket.

But! The movie’s effects, or rather the virtual worlds it created, were absolutely mind-boggling.

In one scene, for example, two giant robots battle atop one of Egypt’s great pyramids as viewers take in the action from aboard a helicopter circling crazily above. Watching the pyramid crumble as the battle crescendos is breathtaking – it looks completely and perfectly realistic.

This marriage of computers and animated photo realism is astounding, a huge leap from just a few short years ago. The use of digital technology to tell beautiful lies (or at least visually spectacular lies) has reached new heights. Bravo to the people who make this possible.

Last night we watched G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. This Hasbro-sponsored vehicle, squarely aimed at jumpstarting the toy giant’s line of action figures, is surprisingly good: well plotted and paced, with a clever, sequel-inducing ending ensuring that in coming years kids will continue to clamor for toys featured in G.I. Joe II, III, and IV.

And once again, the effects — or rather the landscapes, seascapes, deserts, and icescapes portrayed — are dazzling in their depth, realism, and detail. It seems filmmakers have reached the point where they can literally create full-motion digitized worlds, limited only by their imaginations.

I’m eager to view this digital re-creation as some sort of soul-crushing form of techno-culture. But I cannot. It’s entertainment, and while excessively focused on ridiculous super-warriors fighting with outlandish weapons, it’s also thrilling, and beautiful. Surely at some point more film digimeisters will, like Miyazaki Hayao, turn their formidable talents to creating new worlds and fresh story forms not driven by relentless action and violence.

Maybe my aversion to techno-culture has been softened by the rapid digitization of an art form closer to home.

As a proudly amateur musician, I’ve been inspired in past months by an amazing piece of software that helps users practice, learn, and perform by creating digitized “virtual” accompaniments.

The results this software produces, like the movies my son favors, are extraordinarily realistic. For example, this past weekend I recorded a tune with six instruments (live, no overdubs): trumpet, guitar, keyboards, strings, bass, and drums. In this two-minute clip (MP3 weighing about 2.6M), every instrument — except one — is computer-generated. Can you guess which instrument is not digital? (Hint: it’s the one least expertly played).

So I’ve rethought my stance on techno-culture, at least where the arts are concerned, and now embrace my music-dedicated laptop almost daily.

With respect to person-to-person communications and work, though, I still believe that protecting the soul against the deadening effects of techno-culture remains one of the defining issues of our time.

Which makes it a good time to announce my sabbatical from posting at Soul Shelter.

Here’s why I’m going to take a rest from the writing: First, I’m in the home stretch of completing a doctorate in business administration (DBA). My theme is entrepreneurship, specifically business models, and even more specifically, international business model portability (why some business models transfer overseas more readily than others).

Here’s the challenge: Writing each of my Soul Shelter posts takes me takes me a solid four hours, plus extra hours agonizing about writing the post, or about not writing the post. Then there’s monitoring the blog, responding to comments, plus lots of related e-mail reading/writing. It all takes a lot of time, and a sizable chunk of mental bandwidth.

While tremendously fun and satisfying, right now I’ve got a very big Homework Assignment for which I need weeks of free, wide-open time/psychic space to complete. So for the time being I’m going to take a rest from my weekly Soul Shelter posts, and stay away from the work computer, blogs, and e-mail as much as possible.

In the interim, Mark will continue his excellent weekly missives, and we have some outstanding guest writers lined up to fill some of my Wednesday midnight post slots. Also, Mark tells me you’ll continue to hear Tim Clark echoes throughout my absence as he periodically delves into the Soul Shelter archives to unearth a few of my early posts.

I hope to return around mid-February of next year. And in the meantime I hope you’ll continue to look to Soul Shelter for the inspirational, fun, and soul-nourishing weekly posts you’ve come to expect from us.

Cheers to all!

Tim

You may also enjoy:

“Beautiful, Soul-Affirming Untruths“

“In Defense of Solitude (Part One)“

“To Recharge, Unplug“

“A Hymn to the Library“

Here in the Pacific Northwest the tree-leaves that haven’t yet fallen are burning bright with reds and yellows. Over the last several weeks twilight has come on noticeably earlier, and with our clocks now turned back an hour, we find ourselves in full tilt toward the year’s shortest days and longest nights.

As deep autumn alters the structure of my weeks ahead, time is much on my mind. So I thought I’d offer a few simple if occasionally offbeat ideas for “stretching” time — not, mind you, in the quantitative sense of maximizing productivity, but in the qualitative sense of remembering and appreciating how rich and deep with life every fleeting hour can be if one seeks one’s fulfillment in each.

1. Log-Off, Disconnect, Unplug

In his book The Gutenberg Elegies, Sven Birkerts makes an important point about the nature of time:

‘Duration’ is deep time, time experienced without the awareness of time passing. Until quite recently, people on the planet lived mainly in terms of duration time. Time not artificially broken, but shaped around natural rhythmic cycles, time bound to the integrated functioning of the senses, the perceptions. We have destroyed that duration… We have fractured the flow of time…into competing simultaneities. We learn to do five things at once or pay the price.

Given the way our ultra-connected, online existences splinter time into frantic parcels, one’s first and most reliable method of stretching time these days is to switch off one’s devices in favor of analog reality, to become electronically inaccessible, to deliberately remove oneself from the pixellated up-to-the-minute what’s-new-what’s-now? hubbub, and step back into the true Now of the natural world.

In other words, whenever possible choose solitary introspection over information acquisition, or face-to-face interaction over hyper-connectivity.

And once offline, consider each of the following.

2. Travel, or Just Go Someplace New to You

We’ve all experienced a certain strange sensation while walking up a path and back in a place we’d never been before: Always, on that first outbound walk the path seems much longer than it does on the return.

A similar thing happens, on a larger scale, when one travels — especially when one travels abroad. While plunged amid a different culture, and perhaps surrounded by an alien language, each week can seem a month, each month a year, and each year a lifetime in its own right.

In traveling, or just going someplace new, one puts oneself into the realm of the unexpected, where one’s senses and imagination are stimulated to a degree that simply doesn’t occur in everyday life. This has a profound time-stretching effect. In the thick of business as usual, on the other hand, one’s response to the world is largely habitual, and through the lens of habit time seems only to grow more scarce.

Try it. Go away and think nothing of a homecoming. Go as one likes to go by the sea in the night, farther and farther out under the many silent stars. Try it. –Rainer Maria Rilke

3. Undertake a New Project Whose End Is Nowhere in Sight

Write a novel (no outlines allowed). Research your genealogy. Bond with a child. Volunteer at your community center or library or local tree-planting organization.

This point relates to my previous one, for the activities I just mentioned call for a new, often imaginative disposition. Each is an undertaking bound to break up routines of thought and behavior, and thus to take one out of one’s own customary sense of time.

4. Read Books About Other People’s Lives (Fiction and Non)

A wise and inspiring teacher (who happens to be my wife) puts it this way for her students:

We read to live a thousand lives with the one we’re given.

What could I possibly amend?

5. People-Watch

This is one of my favorite activities. I park myself at a busy spot (in my car or on a bench) and simply observe the various characters strolling or hurrying past, getting coffee, exercising their dogs, chasing after toddlers, waiting for the bus, etc.

The time-stretching benefits of people-watching are much like reading. Again, it’s all about exploring one’s own imaginative capacities.

I want my soul to be a wandering thing, able to move back into a hundred forms. I want to dream myself into priests and wanderers, female cooks and murderers, children and animals, and, more than anything else, birds and trees; that is necessary, I want it, I need it so I can go on living, and if sometime I were to lose these possibilities and be caught in so-called reality, then I would rather die. — Hermann Hesse*

6. Meditate

This one’s probably obvious. But many people are unsure about what meditation really is. Think of it, if you like, as sitting and doing nothing — but remember that it’s got to be unadulterated inactivity accompanied by presence of mind, which is a very different state from the vacant passivity arrived at while, say, watching TV. Meditation, as I recommend it, means centering one’s focus upon one’s own pulse and breath, thinking about nothing else in particular. It means removing oneself from all stimuli save the flow of time.

It is a sort of Eternity for a man to have his Time all to himself. – Charles Lamb

My previous two suggestions, reading and people-watching, could be understood as more active forms of meditation — but how often these days does one consciously free oneself to do nothing at all, to exist for a while fully separate (and still awake) from all pressing matters and all noise? To do so is to return to a core, and to bask in what Birkerts calls “deep time.”

I suspect that this kind of sitting meditation is today, more than ever, confused with — and avoided as — boredom. But really, boredom, at least as we often mean the term, is the opposite of meditation, for unlike meditation, boredom itself does nothing to renew and enliven the soul’s rich sense of time and time’s elasticity. (This fine article in The Boston Globe, however, makes a good case for reassessing boredom’s benefits).

Here’s a final word for today on the subject of boredom, time, and time-stretching, written some eighty years ago by the great German novelist Thomas Mann:

What people call boredom is actually an abnormal compression of time caused by monotony — uninterrupted uniformity can shrink large spaces of time until the heart falters, terrified to death. When every day is like every other, then all days are like one, and perfect homogeneity would make the longest life seem very short, as if it had flown by in a twinkling. …We know full well that the insertion of new habits or the changing of old ones is the only way to preserve life, to renew our sense of time, to rejuvenate, intensify, and retard our experience of time — and thereby renew our sense of life itself. **

*Hesse translation by James Wright

**Mann translation by John E. Woods

(This is a renascent post from Soul Shelter’s Year-One archives)

You might also enjoy:

“Let Us Begin”

“When Time Stopped”

“The Heroic Journey”

“On Slowness”

“Why ‘Time Management’ is Nonsense”

“The Ground Underfoot: Why Stories Matter”

“The Art of Looking Deeply”

“Time to Give In, Time to Give Up”

“A Hymn to the Library“

That’s because when the sculpture’s head is fastened on, viewers see before them a contrite, bowing figure of Mao Zedong, seeking the viewer’s forgiveness for atrocities committed against millions during the Cultural Revolution.

Headless, the sculpture remains innocuous and safe from official sanction. Assembled, it breaks the taboo of criticizing China’s leaders.

“We wanted to portray him as a human being, a regular person confessing for the wrongs he’s committed,” said Zhen, quoted in a recent article in the International Herald Tribune.

The Gao Brothers focus on what Oscar Wilde called “the proper aim of art” — “the telling of beautiful, untrue things.”

The Gao’s sculpture is, in short, a beautiful lie. Mao never confessed to wrongdoing, and of course never can. Yet while impossible, such a confession is a beautiful thought.

The IHT article about The Gao Brothers prompted me to consider that most art — fiction, theater, film, paintings, music, dance, sculpture — consists of beautiful, untrue things.

Beautiful, soul-affirming untruths.

You may also enjoy:

“Art Awakens Us: The Diving Bell & the Butterfly“

“My Kid Could Paint That“

“The Beautiful, Untrue Things Entrepreneurs Believe“

“Stacking Stones, Letting Them Fall“