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A meditation on entering flow state. A snack beckons. I stand up and head a few feet away to the kitchen area. A hojicha latte is on my mind, and also a bite. My brain is at operational capacity, and I am in a flow state. The metabolic need feels high, and I need to keep my energy up. I make the latte, iced with almond milk. I devour an oat bar. It’s the time of year when projects are in full swing. The seasons also drive business. Today started with syncing on UK time, getting on a call with Simon and then Jeff joining. We reviewed work and made plans. I know what’s immediately ahead of me today, and I steel myself mentally. It’s funny how the pressure from a timeline and deadline can focus you. Because I am a shokunin, I have my design mise en place laid out both in the mind, and at the physical desk. The plan appears, as I percolated on it after the call. I am now executing it. Windows are open all over: a browser with a tab count I can't even see, a few design tools, two deck tools, communication tools, and note tools. I stop to consider that I'm working across multiple variants of the same core pieces of software but in different flavors and with different purposes or are inputs from others collaborating. The mise en place is multi-modal. I am traversing them, wielding a strange authority over them all. After all afternoon and as the evening beckons, I share the file, toggling on collaboration. A message goes out to all parties. Flow state will come for us all. This is just the beginning. Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
My operating rules and way of living. This is a m.o. (mo) page, or modus operandi page. It lists out the way I approach my life and the rules I apply to it to thrive. This is a living document and will be added to as more comes to mind, or as I develop new ones. It is mirrored at /mo. Feel free to make your own. Let me know if you do, and I'll list yours at the end of my mo page. Simplicity and defaults keeps things simple: stock apps, stock methods. Only specialize and customize if a need really can't be met. I stay away from almost every chain when it comes to purchasing something. I seek out locally-owned businesses or small niche businesses. Given the option between a small business and a tiny business, I opt for the tiny one. Even more so if it's owned or operated by BIPOC, immigrants, and/or queer folk. Scale and choice matters. I want people to be unafraid to start tiny businesses and to be encouraged to continue to do so. I do not buy from Amazon. I am not a hardcore minimalist, but operate like one. If something comes into my possession, it has to be necessary. If something comes into my possession, it should do more than one job. If something comes into my possession, it must do its primary job best. Most items should be thought of as tools: to enable me to do something. Items owned should be of the highest quality possible at a reasonable budgetary spend, but would likely be too much money than most would consider reasonable. I seek items that can be repaired whenever possible or have as long a life as feasible. Items should be grail items: it is the pinnacle of its kind, is timeless, and durable. Buy used: modern culture treats life as disposable. I rail against that and seek things that you will pass down to your grandchildren or similar. Walking is preferred, when possible. Take public transit when possible. Ride a bicycle. Drive less, and only drive when I must. I own a vehicle. It's used. It's now 17 years old. It's made by Toyota. It enables me to go very far, and into the backcountry. It is driven mostly for adventure. It is parked when in the city and at home. I will do my best to extend its lifespan and keep it running until it can no longer. I do not ingest highly processed foods. I eat whole foods as much as possible. I am restrictive in my diet, partly out of age and care for my body, but also because I have been diagnosed with SIBO and have nummular/discoid eczema (a rare form). I was able to come off long-term topical steroid use and keep my horrendous all-over eczema at bay because of adopting the AIP protocol. I will pay for high quality food. My body requires movement. I provide this to it through running (formerly decades of cycling), rock climbing, yoga, strength training, and general physical play. I am not an early adopter of technology. Most tech should be repairable, easily replaceable, or used until it reaches end-of-life. See item purchasing above. Phone is Airplane mode at night. I'd keep it in another room like others do, but I tend to wake up in the middle of the night and need music (downloaded) to listen to, to fall back asleep. Computers, modems, and wi-fi are powered down at night. I love Airpods because of my hearing loss and physically smaller left ear, but detest that they are ultimately disposable products. I am moving back towards wired headphones. I wear natural fibers on my body almost all of the time. I keep synthetic clothing to a minimum — typically limited to running shorts (lowest friction for my eczema) or for outdoor pursuits (rain shell, down jackets). I wear cotton and merino wool. With my eczema status, all plastic-and-oil based clothing feels creepy-tingly-gross on my skin. At an eatery: prioritize establishments that have reusable dinner- and silverware. Coffee shops: for here, please. Worst case scenario: paper or compostable containers. When possible, and remembered, I have a Snow Peak titanium spork on me to reduce utensil use when eating out at a fast casual or for food to-go. I love to cook. You don't need to, but you should be able to do some basic cooking so you can feed yourself. Pick up food takeout when possible and tip the restaurant versus using a delivery service which is already gouging you on pricing, and getting reamed on their cut of the profit. Pay them directly. Do your own groceries. Spend the time to get out in the world and community and talk and be amongst people. I do not pay for video streaming services, but am paying for a YouTube Premium subscription because creators and artists and filmmakers and nerds and enthusiasts have better and real stories to tell. Always take the stairs. Always walk the travelator. Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
I turned another year older. A collection of small moments and choices that let me be me. One guidepost for each year I've been alive — some I've practiced for decades, and a few new ones. Feel out the day and go where your energy wants you to. Your energy is precious. Don’t let someone else take it. Show up and do the work. Your partner, friends, family, pets, and loved ones are more important than any passing digital connections. Spend more time with them at this age. We’re all getting older, and some have already moved on from this plane. Check in on your loved ones and friends. Build a resilient life. Seek diversity. Walk in someone else’s shoes. Walk in the shoes of a BIPOC or queer person. Sometimes, you just need a chocolate croissant. Make it a point to travel. Travel to a place where the people, language, and culture are nothing like yours. Call your mom. Dance. Never stop air drumming. Go find a space to play real drums. Talk to your neighbors. Befriend them. Smile at passersby. Give pedestrians the right of way. Say goodbye when you leave a store. Hug more. Go to a show. Support artists. Always take the stairs. Always walk the travelator. Don’t hog the sidewalk. Be aware of your surroundings. Wear a light long-sleeve shirt/hat/pants instead of sunscreen. Eat real food. A.B.C. Always Be Curious. Never stop learning. Stagnation is death. Let your skin feel the sun. Let your skin feel the rain. Take a walk in warm rain. Take your shoes off and feel the ground. Find a quiet place and just be. Do something you love that doesn’t involve making money. Do something that’s yours and for you only. Listen more than you speak. Reflect on the day, the week, the month, the year, the decades. Talk to people. In person. Or pick up the phone and listen to their voice. Or get on a video call to see their face, their expression, their smile, their laugh. Be genuine. Feel the feels. You’re human. Make a life you love. Have no regrets. Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
We are shokunin. Last week I was in Ojai, California, for True’s Founder Camp.[1] James Freeman, founder of Blue Bottle Coffee was in conversation with Jeff Veen, and one of the attendees asked him: “How do you maintain such high quality?” Freeman answers, “‘Maintaining’ is a trigger word for me. You’re either getting better or you’re getting worse. There is no maintaining.” That struck me as he said it. It immediately reminded me of shokunin. Master woodworker and shokunin himself, Tashio Odate describes: Shokunin means not only having technical skill, but also implies an attitude and social consciousness... a social obligation to work his best for the general welfare of the people, [an] obligation both material and spiritual. The Art of Fine Tools If you’ve seen “Jiro Dreams of Sushi,” Jiro Ono himself is a shokunin, and I think of his lifelong pursuit of making sushi better every day. Compare that to the rise of supermarket sushi, which can be passable and satiate an immediate need, but never reaches the levels and highs of what master sushi chefs can achieve during their tenure. Sachiko Matsuyama in a piece titled, “Shokunin and Devotion,” writes: When I take guests to visit shokunin at their studios, they often ask how long it takes to make one item. The shokunin, sometimes annoyed by the question, answers: ‘A lifetime’. Among shokunin that I often work with, there are some who are carrying on their family business, and others who have courageously jumped into the field of craftsmanship to become one simply through their own strong will. The independent web, where people are making homes on the internet, on their own domains — creating, building, and sharing with the world — stands in contrast to the walled-off prisons of social media networks. The curation and craftsmanship that individuals develop over time — iterating, tending, evolving, and continuously improving — results in a collection of work that embodies their creators’ intentions and aspirations for care. I’m okay with worse too. We learn from regression or dilution, and that can provide perspective to return to better. You need to know the lows to appreciate the highs. In this current moment with AI reaching a fever pitch in the industry, there’s a palpable tension between those of us who have been working on the Internet for decades, and the young upstarts embracing vibe coding and building with almost completely generative codebases. Many of us possess deep knowledge and experience, having journeyed through different outcomes and encountered those moments when things worsen or improve. We design and code for better, and we design and code because we’re practicing a craft for our lifetimes: Internet shokunin. Full disclosure: I work for True Ventures as a fractional creative director and product designer. ↩︎ Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
More in literature
Dinant is a small city in the Walloon region of Belgium, on the Meuse River. It is one of those otherwise obscure places (Fort Pillow, Lidice, My Lai) that has lent its name to an atrocity. On August 23, 1914, in the early weeks of World War I, German troops slaughtered almost seven-hundred Belgian civilians – men, women, children – and burned down most of the buildings in the city. In her “Dinant, August 1914” (Arm in Arm, 2022), Catharine Savage Brosman describes the massacre as “foreshadowing the trenches.” True, but it also foreshadows the second round of German barbarism less than thirty years later. “Late June ’14: an Austrian archduke died by an assassin’s hand. A pawn, that’s all. The chessboard changed; alliances and pride moved pieces toward an end none could forestall. “Mid-August, Feast of the Assumption: war now two weeks old. In Belgium, on the Meuse, Dinant had been contested twice before. This time the Teuton forces would not lose. “French fighters occupied the Citadel, when Jägers, with machine guns, overcame them, leaving one-half dead. The stronghold fell again that very day—a deadly game “foreshadowing the trenches. Germans massed Their troops, secured pontoons. First, raids at night. The 23rd, they crossed: blast after blast, grenades and cannon, houses fired, to spite “resistance. In one month, a thousand dead civilians, pillage, executions, rape, two libraries in ruins—and ahead four years of butchery, with no escape. “To what avail were pacts, with Europe, torn, gouged out, perhaps nine million soldiers killed? Though time grew late, the peace was never born. War is the poisoned fruit that we have willed.” In The Times on September 2, 1914, in response to Dinant and other German atrocities – known collectively as “The Rape of Belgium” – Rudyard Kipling published “For All We Have and Are”: “Our world has passed away, In wantonness o’erthrown. There is nothing left to-day But steel and fire and stone!”
Anything you give your time to and polish with attention will become a lens on your search for meaning, will lavish you with metaphors that become backdoors into the locked room of your most urgent reckonings. In my nascent adventures in pottery, I have observed with great fascination how two different glazes, when combined, produce an entirely unpredictable result — something not greater than the sum of its parts but of a wholly different order. In the extreme conditions of the kiln, which can reach the temperature of a red star, chemistry and chance converge to make a third glaze… read article
Some wartime casualties are time-released. Death is deferred. In his new collection, That Mad Game (Scienter Press, 2025), R.L. Barth devotes three poems to a civilian, the war correspondent Albert W. Vinson, who wrote about him leading a patrol of Marines in Vietnam in 1968. The briefest appears in a section Bob calls “Snowfall in Vietnam: Poems/Maxims,” and is titled “Stringers: i.m. A.W. Vinson”: “The newsmen with guts.” Bob is extending the logic of his devotion to concision and composing a poem of four words. Vinson wrote a story about Barth’s patrol that was published on the Week End Feature Page of the Cincinnati Post & Times Star on November 16, 1968. Barth was from Erlanger, Ky., across the Ohio River from Cincinnati, and the story made him briefly a hometown hero. Vinson had served as a Marine during World War II and was seriously wounded by Japanese machine-gun fire. Only last year did Bob learn that Vinson had committed suicide in 1971. Bob includes “In the Mountains,” a three-poem sequence “in memory of Albert W. Vinson, who first placed these events on the record.” Finally comes “2nd Lt. Albert W. Vinson, U.S.M.C.,” subtitled “Talasea, New Britain 1944—Ononomowoc, WI 1971”: “Those Japanese machinegun rounds That shattered shoulder, legs, and arms Killed you as surely as, years later, The freight train on that lonely night.” Barth’s subject is not the history of the war in Vietnam. Rather, his focus is the impact that war had on the lives of young men born into safe, prosperous postwar America and thrown into a barbarous conflict without a coherent strategy, goal or widespread support at home. In his introduction to Vietnam: An Epic Tragedy, 1945-1975 (2018), Max Hastings writes “All wars are different, and yet the same.” In a section of his new collection titled “Coda: World Wars,” Bob includes poems dedicated to men who fought in previous wars. His is a poetry of remembrance, often across generations and centuries. Here is “Semper Fidelis: 1st MARDIV,” dedicated to Raymond Lawrence Barth (1921-2006), Bob’s father: “A combat knife, web belt, some photographs, Chevrons, dog tags, and medals: epitaphs For both the recent dead and one to die. While placing his mementos where mine lie In the top dresser drawer, I contemplate The tours of duty that they recreate: Jungle terrain, twenty-six years apart, Guadalcanal and I Corps, war’s grim art. Their future dispensation? Surely lost. There will be no one left who knew their cost.” Bob asked me to write a blurb for That Mad Game. It appears on the back cover: “Bob Barth has said he could talk to a Roman legionary – a fellow warrior. His poems are compact, artfully crafted, unsentimental and mindful of earlier soldier-poets. They are the shoptalk of a fighting man, a Marine patrol leader in Vietnam. He takes his title – ‘War, that mad game the world so loves to play’ -- from Jonathan Swift, who reminds us of those who ‘so dearly pay.’” Bob’s title is from Swift’s “Ode to Sir William Temple” (c. 1692): “War, that mad game the world so loves to play, And for it does so dearly pay; For, though with loss, or victory, a while Fortune the gamesters does beguile, Yet at the last the box sweeps all away.” Ours is a literary age in which most poems are stridently trivial and frequently incoherent. Bob writes with technical mastery of consequential things. Here is “Doughboys: Photograph c. 1917,” dedicated to Bob’s grandfather, Bernard Henry Benzinger (1894-1979), a World War I veteran: “Around a folded blanket seven doughboys Intently watch the dice turn six the hard way. Like pre-noir tough guys, three or four clutch sawbucks Half curled, ready to shell out or increase A conscript private’s base pay. One, raffish, Tilts his campaign hat like an old salt. All seven would shame Bogart with the angle Of dangling cigarettes and arched eyebrows. But they're not tough guys, just heartbreakers all, Stunning the viewer with impossible youth.”
“April 17 [in 1778], being Good Friday, I waited on Johnson, as usual.” As was the custom in school when I was growing up, I learned history as a rollcall of great men and memorized dates. “Abraham Lincoln” and “December 7, 1941” plugged leaks in my obligatory knowledge and that was the end of it. History was static, fixed like a photograph. To know it was an act of memorization, not moral imagination. Only later, as “History” and personal history blurred, and as Gibbon’s lessons slowly sank in, did I become intimate with the past. The minutiae of individual lives seemed not only more interesting but more charged with personal significance. “They” became “us.” Reading history is not unlike reading a great novel, say Daniel Deronda or Nostromo, fiction containing history and the lives of men and women not entirely unlike us. Cynthia Ozick recently referred to “the long and intertwined corridors of the past, and a conviction that a mind shorn of history is vacuous.” Above, Boswell begins recounting yet another meeting with Dr. Johnson, 247 years ago. It’s a holy day: “I observed at breakfast that although it was a part of his abstemious discipline on this most solemn fast, to take no milk in his tea, yet when Mrs. Desmoulins inadvertently poured it in, he did not reject it. I talked of the strange indecision of mind, and imbecility in the common occurrences of life, which we may observe in some people. JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, I am in the habit of getting others to do things for me.’ BOSWELL. ‘What, Sir! have you that weakness?’ JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir. But I always think afterwards I should have done better for myself.’” A history of religious practice and a good man’s tolerance and moral scruples is casually present in that passage. An exchange on travel writing follows. Boswell tells Johnson that A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (1775) contains much he possessed even before leaving London: “JOHNSON. ‘Why yes, Sir, the topicks were; and books of travels will be good in proportion to what a man has previously in his mind; his knowing what to observe; his power of contrasting one mode of life with another. As the Spanish proverb says, ‘He, who would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry the wealth of the Indies with him.’ So it is in travelling; a man must carry knowledge with him, if he would bring home knowledge.’ BOSWELL. ‘The proverb, I suppose, Sir, means, he must carry a large stock with him to trade with.’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Sir.’” That’s says volumes about the worthlessness of most “travel writing,” as opposed to the work of Charles Doughty, Evelyn Waugh, Rebecca West, Patrick Leigh Fermor, Zbigniew Herbert and V.S. Naipaul. Among other qualities, their travel writing attends closely to history. After attending Good Friday services at St. Clement’s, Boswell recounts the chance reunion of Johnson with an old acquaintance, Oliver Edwards, from his Pembroke Colleges days. It’s a marvelous passage and I’ve written about it before. Johnson recalls drinking ale with Edwards and sharing lines of poetry. In reply, Edwards utters his “deathless remark”: “You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I have tried too in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don’t know how, cheerfulness was always breaking in.” Apart from Boswell’s literary gifts, think of the raw historical knowledge gleaned from a close reading and rereading of his Life of Johnson. [Speaking of history, my youngest son, David Kurp, a senior at Rice University, has just had a paper, “Limits, Liberty, and Localism: The Shared Vision of Burke and Tocqueville,” published in the Spring 2025 issue of Rice Historical Review.]
