The White Goddess

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This is an excerpt from my collection, Borg Like Me. If you’re interested, you can order the book here.

I had an event in my life, a plain and unexpected epiphany, that’s become a high watermark to my happiness. Of course, celebrations of big milestones, things like my marriage, the birth of my son, were seismic, life-altering events. But this was something entirely different. Those are engineered moments of happiness, 21-gun salutes to joy; the sorts of experiences that sketch the bold outlines of a life. This was a quiet, gracious little moment in which I felt like I had peered under creation’s skirt and caught a glimpse of the underlying beauty of all things. Over the years, this experience has taken on almost sacred dimensions to me. It has even become part of my mythopoetic lexicon, what I now refer to as “white goddess moments.” This never-before-published piece is my attempt at defining what this term means to me.

It was soon after my wife, son, and I had moved into our new home. Buying a house, packing up and moving to it and fully into it—spreading the collected contents of our lives onto its shelves, into its empty corners, onto its walls—was something none of us had ever experienced. We’d certainly moved, first from a hippie commune in the country (where my wife and I had met) to a group house in the city. Then the whole group had moved to a new house together, and then, from the group we’d moved into our first rental – just our little nuclear family. But this journey had been bigger, and far more perilous. We’d bought this place. It was ours. And as trite as it sounds, it really does feel categorically different when you own it (even if that ownership is an illusion cast by the bank).

A few months after we’d moved in, DC had one of its rare serious storms. I don’t remember how much, but I remember it being that level of snowfall where the house is completely encased in it, with drifts piled up against outside walls and doors, where the roof becomes heavy and exaggerated with thick slabs of white water crystals. But, despite the intimidating weather, we felt cozy inside. Safe. We’d even lit a fire in our “new” gas-powered fireplace, which was anything but new and was a perilous, fire-breathing bitch to light. You had to get your head down below the level of the fiery gas-ball that VOOMED! out dramatically after minutes of it bleeding explosive gases into the room while you tried to light it. We only fired it up four or five times and then got too spooked to try again. Lighting it felt like trying to defuse a bomb. But we didn’t know all that at the time – we still had that new homeowner smell — and so, a natural gas fire of ceramic faux-log glowed away in all of its Rockwellian charm in our new living room.

The contentment I felt in those days was indescribable. That basic, honest feeling of hearth and home, mother and child. I loved my wife. I loved my son. I loved my work. And now, I had a home I was falling in love with, too; a home that was currently being surrounded by an uninvited superorganism of a bazillion snowflakes. But the warmth inside that house felt like it could heroically melt away any and all alien invaders.

snowBread2Late in the evening, before bed, I took my nightly shower. I made the shower extra hot to help soothe the stiffness in my body. After a long day of working, fixing, and unpacking, the hot water felt outrageous on my tired frame. As I stood there in the shower, stretching and groaning like a savanna cat in the sunshine, I looked at the frosted-glass bathroom window. I could make out little drifts of snow against the windowsill and snowflakes hitting and vaporizing against the warmed, milky glass. I wondered if the window could actually open. Probably painted shut, I thought. On a whim, I decided to find out. I unlocked it and pushed hard against the frame. Nothing. Stuck. I banged against the bottom and along the edges to free up where it might be glued tight with paint. I tried again. With some earnest pushing, it finally squeaked to life and cracked opened. Cold air and snowflakes blasted inside, mixing with the steam.

Along with the cold, something else streamed in and overtook me. Silence. It was as deathly-silent in our backyard as it was frozen. A nearly full, waxing moon made the Earth glow. Everything had been rendered bright-white, smoothed to ambiguousness, and blanketed with a silence so perfect, so pervasive, it had as much dramatic presence as any conceivable sound.

I raised the window as high as it would go and stuck the entire top half of my nakedness outside. The feeling was strange and delectable. My body didn’t know what to make of a bottom half that was baking in seriously hot water and a top half that was rapidly venting its heat into a freezing moonlit night. I could see steam pouring off of my skin in dramatic swirls. Icicles rapidly formed on my beard. The feeling was glorious and enchanting, I became giddy and might as well have had Tinker Bell fairies fluttering around me.

When I finally settled into this strange situation, it was the silence that stunned me, a stillness that rapidly quieted my insides. The experience of that deep quiet made me instantly flash back to another time I’d experienced a profound silence in a similar snow-muffled world.

When Blake was maybe three, there had been a similar storm. Pam, myself, and our housemates, Patch and Linda, had dressed our two boys, Blake and Lars, in snowsuits late at night (naughty parents!). We’d all traipsed out into a new snow with not a soul awake, not a flake disturbed. The feeling of softly crunching our way into this magical landscape, with two bewildered little boys, waddling wide-eyed and awkwardly in their puffed-up snowsuits, is something I will never forget. We all struggled to stifle laughter and giggled conversation, lest we disturb a sleeping world around us. At the time, that experience became its own high-happiness watermark. I felt like I had witnessed unspeakable beauty that night, and such familial contentment in experiencing something so “non-ordinary” with my child and our extended family.

Years later, I was reminded that the poet Robert Graves, in his book The White Goddess, ascribes the image of the white goddess, the moon goddess, to such profound and fundamental moments that stir and humble with their inspired beauty.

He believed these “goddess moments” to be the underlying inspiration of all poetry (at least what he called “muse poetry,” which he thought was the inspired kind). In his poetic mythos (boiled out from many pagan religions), she is the white goddess because she is the seductive, reflected white light of the moon, and that feeling you get in inspired situations is you catching a glimpse of her otherworldly beauty, the beauty and mystery that underlie all created things. Such inspiration lives within any experience of poetry (in any form) where “the hair stands on end, the eyes water, the throat is constricted, the skin crawls, and a shiver runs down the spine,” as Graves put it.

When I re-read of Graves’ white goddess, I immediately remembered that night in the shower, and the earlier adventure with the kids in the snow. I started calling these “white goddess moments,” anytime I am brought to my knees by an experience, especially if “apparently unpeopled and eventless,” where the “elements themselves bespeak her unseen presence” and I feel like I’ve had a poetically authentic moment. I’m happy to say I feel my life has been blessed by many such moments, but none have rivaled the time I leaked into my snow-covered backyard from my bathroom window.

And if truth be told, in thinking back on this, my greatest “white goddess” moment, I realize that the watermark is not that moment in and of itself. It has such significance to me because my relationship with my wife, with our family, probably hit its high watermark that night. That window had never been opened before and it has not been opened since. It’s become something of my metaphorical “window onto Eden” (as William Blake called it), my window onto paradise.

It may sound silly to want to mark such a peak moment with a ritual gesture –shouldn’t such a moment be its own celebration? But I have a plan for how I want to ritually acknowledge such a future high watermark of joy and contentment in my life, should I be fortunate enough to reach one. I will wait until there’s a full moon, maybe it will again be winter, with new-fallen snow on the ground. In the dead of a gloriously black and still night, I will climb back into my shower and I will once again open my paint-sticky window onto Eden. I will then unfold my nakedness out, up, and into the stars, and there I will once again kiss our Blessed Lady…

The White Goddess.

Tears in the Rain (excerpt from Borg Like Me)

Inset from John Bergin's "Tears in the Rain" illustration in "Borg Like Me."

Inset from John Bergin’s “Tears in the Rain” illustration in “Borg Like Me.”

I’m currently on Nantucket after a five year hiatus. Being here again has evoked this essay to visible appearance, along with the rich chapter of my life in which it appeared. I took a picture of the theater mentioned in the piece (which has now been gobbled up, power-washed, and thoroughly sterilized by a mega-theater chain) and the window I peered into from the perpetual rain of Bladerunner’s near-future. These two pictures inspired me to post this essay.

***

In 1982, my wife and I had just moved from a rural commune in Virginia to Washington, DC. We moved to the city so that she could pursue her music career (among other reasons). We were still country mice, easily awoken in the morning by street traffic, bothered by the air quality, and longing for the open skies of the country.

Every year my wife would go to Nantucket to perform at a restaurant called The Brotherhood of Thieves — a place that wouldn’t look at all out of place in Treasure Island. It was dark, brick-walled, candle and lantern-lit, with big oak-slab tables and wooden ass-numbing chairs. In 1982, she was performing a duo act with well-known New England folkie Linda Worster, with whom she
frequently played on the island.

Seeing them perform every night was a joy, but some nights I’d want to drift onto the streets of Nantucket, get swept up into the tide of pink and Nantucket-red golf clothes and flouncy summer dresses, and see where the night might wash
me up.

The Dreamland Theater today. A shadow of its former shadowy self.

The Dreamland Theater today. A shadow of its former shadowy self.

On this night, a somewhat cold and cloudy one, I ended up under the marquee of Nantucket’s Dreamland Theater, a giant, creaking, wooden ship of a building that smelled of mold, popcorn grease, and sunscreen.

Blade Runner, it read. I knew nothing about the film, but it was sci-fi and had Harrison Ford in it, so I figured it’d at least be the perfect way to kill a couple of hours before the ladies’ last set. Little did I know that I was stepping into a portal and would emerge a different person, on a different life trajectory than the person who was currently stumbling down the shabby carpet in the dark, looking for a seat.

I can’t really say what made such a fundamental impact on me. The dark noir mood of the film, certainly, and the questions it raises about the nature of life, memory, what constitutes humanity, and whether “androids dream of electric sheep…” What I didn’t know I was looking at was a cyberpunk aesthetic that I would soon become completely immersed in, through the work of William Gibson, John Shirley, Bruce Sterling, and others — dystopian worlds, fifteen minutes into the future, where global mega-corporations run the show, where personal and planetary technologies permeate society, and where the street finds its own
uses for things.

I found the brutality of the film, the violence of the film’s rogue replicants towards humans, and their “retirement” at the hands of police special agent Rick Deckard (Ford) shocking to my country hippie sensibilities. But all of those shocks only made the final scene of replicant Roy Batty’s (played by Rutger Hauer) “natural” death all the more effective and moving. At the time, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and ate up Hauer’s (allegedly ad libbed) Tannhaeuser Gate/tears in the rain soliloquy.

It was in that moment that the mood of the film throughly soaked into me. I felt as though I were in it. It ended and I unceremoniously swam back out into the boisterous, drunken nightlife of downtown Nantucket, which didn’t feel at all like Nantucket anymore. Fittingly, it had started to drizzle and a fog had crept up Broad Street from Straight Wharf — Blade Runner’s perpetual rain had descended upon Nantucket.

The window that used to look iinto "the stage" at The Brotherhood restaurant.

The window that used to look onto “the stage” at The Brotherhood restaurant.

I made my way back to The Brotherhood. I stood outside the street-level windows right next to where Pammy and Linda performed and peered in. I don’t know what song it was, but they were in the middle of some energetic, smilie-faced, folk number. As I stood in the chilly rain, now getting seriously wet, Pam sensed I was there and turned to me as she sang. Her face dropped as she saw the faraway look on mine. I forced a smile. She smiled, satisfied, and turned back into her music. But I was a universe away. I was peering into that antique-glass window from the future.

I didn’t go into the restaurant that night, one of the rare occasions I didn’t catch at least one set. I went upstairs to the Brotherhood’s “Ent Room” (Entertainer’s Room) where we stayed and I cried. I cried a lot. Again, I’m not really sure why. It is one of my few “molting moments” (as Cocteau called them) where I can’t tell you what gears got turned, what wires in my nervous system got spliced. But I had changed. I cried for the loss of something. Humanity, perhaps. I knew, without knowing it, that post-humanity had just dawned on me. Long live the new flesh!

I would quickly travel from this moment into cyberpunk sci-fi, industrial/ electronic music, bOING bOING, Mondo 2000, Wired, and my own Beyond Cyberpunk! I cried for the death of that country hippie. And like Batty, in that moment, I could feel the full weight of my life, the amazing adventures I’d already been on, full of “things you people wouldn’t believe,” and somehow, I could sense wondrous adventures to come, And like Batty, I was sad to think that all of this, all of this accumulation of experience and knowledge, all of my memories, would vanish when I died.

Pammy is gone, eight years now, by her own hand. I think of that “scene” from our life together frequently, that frozen moment at the window. It has become a scene in Blade Runner itself. I can’t think of one without the other. I hold these
and other memories in a precious kind of stasis ‘cause I know that “all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”

***

holidaySpreadIf you’d like a copy of Borg Like Me, you can order it here. Besides the book, you get a letterpress printed Sparks of Fire Press bookplate, a bookmarklet featuring art from the book, and other fun goods.

Review of Borg Like Me by Eric Siegel

Eric Siegel, former Director of the New York Hall of Science (site of the annual World Maker Faire) sent me this review that he felt inspired to write after finishing Borg Like Me. He posted it on my Amazon page and on Goodreads. I asked his permission to repost it here. I was very touched by it, even if he’s totally wrong about Brian Eno. 🙂 Thanks, Eric!

If you’d like your own copy of Borg Like Me, order it directly from me and you’ll get a bunch of other goodies, including a letterpress printed bookplate (design by my son, Blake Maloof), a bookmark featuring art from the book, and a mail-art-decorated envelope featuring rubber stamps that I designed.

***

Do you know Gareth Branwyn? If you’ve gone to any of the Maker Faires east or west in the past decade or so, you have certainly seen him and if you’ve seen him, you’re bound to have noticed. My first sighting at the World Maker Faire in NY was of a tall man with flashing LEDs apparently embedded in his bald scalp (a costume designed by Diana Eng of Project Runway). He had a stooped, scholarly way of carrying himself, and when I talked to him, he peered intently up at me through his glasses. In short order, we were confiding with each other about amazing stuff we had seen at the Faire, good-looking makers, and common experiences around music and drugs.

You mean THESE embedded LEDs?

You mean THESE embedded LEDs? Photo by Greg Hayes.

Because of my own personal experiences (we have a daughter with Cerebral Palsy), I am very attentive to physical disabilities. I am a little obsessed with the technologies and other ways and means in which people, disabled and otherwise, enhance and sustain our lives and our own attitudes toward dis/ability. I even created an exhibition called Human + about technology and human ability that is currently touring the country. Gareth’s personal relationship with his disability (he has an extreme and intrusive form of arthritis) is straightforward without guile or misdirection.

So, with a budding friendship with Gareth and my interest in disability and technology, I was thrilled when I got a copy of Gareth’s new book, Borg Like Me & Other Tales of Art, Eros, and Embedded Systems. Oddly enough given the technological sheen suggested by the title, it is a trade size paperback book, one of the few that I’ve actually bought in the past several years. Gareth’s frankness is catching, so I will share that the book was installed with honor in our throne room, which I found offered the perfect intervals for dipping into the book and savoring each of the chapters.

The book mostly consists of collected articles that Gareth has written for various publications and web sites over the past 20 years. Each essay is graced by a short introduction in which the current Gareth reflects on the circumstances that shaped the writing. Gareth describes himself as an “extreme extrovert,” which conjures images of back-slapping, glad-handing banter. It is probably more accurate to say that Gareth is obsessive sharer, happiest when he is revealing and examining some surprisingly intimate experience. If he weren’t so disarmingly interested in everything around him, the essays would run the risk of being mawkish, self-involved, or irrelevant. As it is, the extremity of his personal circumstances, the losses he has suffered, the trials of his physical disabilities are placed like boulders in the rushing river of his fascination with the world.

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Borg Like Me isn’t entirely dependent on whether the reader shares Gareth’s preferences for Eno, Cyberpunk, and Blade Runner, and his fascination with the freedom of expression potentially offered by technology. But the reader can be left feeling a bit distanced from the essays if s/he doesn’t share these enthusiasms. Gareth does his best to convey the awesome experience of falling in love to a Brian Eno composition, and paints the music in cosmic terms. I can take or leave Eno so went I went to Spotify to check it out and was thoroughly (and predictably) unmoved. Similarly, I missed the whole ‘zine movement and have a hard time relating to the ardor with which Gareth describes the impact of these self-published broadsides on the world.

But these are the relatively rare distancing moments in this collection. The depth of Gareth’s frankness and apparent guilelessness in the face of extreme suffering is thoroughly mesmerizing. His description of the psychosis brought on by a bad drug reaction after open heart surgery is as vivid a description of madness as I have ever encountered, and also hilarious. He is convinced in his hallucinations that the world’s deep structure is made of koosh balls, and in the interstices between the balls, a loosely knit collection of 50’s wrought iron lawn furniture. He talks of draining wounds with insouciance, and if it seemed like an effort, I would say that he bore all his wounds and his tribulations with inspiring courage. But it does not seem like an effort when he writes with heartbreaking clarity about surviving the abandonment and subsequent suicide of his beloved wife. It all seems part of the fabric of a deeply felt and deeply lived life.

His enthusiasms are wide and passionate, if generally geeky. He uncovers the quirky characters who founded the Jet Propulsion Lab in 1950’s Pasadena. He makes a convincing case that William Blake, his beloved Romantic poet and artist, was a forefather of the 20th century self-publishing revolution. He publishes a catalog of “saints” generated by readers of Boing Boing, a geek-friendly online zine and blog with which Gareth has had a long and fruitful association. Gareth forthrightly recognizes the unsurprising fact that Boing Boing’s readers prefer their saints with penises, rather than otherwise, but the very act of surfacing this group’s heroes shows the range of their passions, from physics to tantric Buddhism to punk.

As much as Gareth identifies with musicians, artists, makers, technologists, and philosophers, he is above all a writer. His form of “making” is shaping prose that is rich with his personality but seems effortless and transparent. Borg Like Me includes “Gareth’s Tips on Suck-less Writing,” a genuinely useful guide to lucid writing, with a clear bias toward precision and clarity directed at budding journalists. I’m not sure how William “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom” Blake would respond to Gareth’s advice: “Is this the simplest most straightforward way of saying this? If not, toss or revise.” But for the kind of writing that Gareth is teaching, his advice is excellent.

The most deeply felt parts of the book are about intimacy, sharing love, music, hope, community, and the early hope of sex. This intimacy is distributed pretty evenly throughout the book, and not just isolated to the moments of romance. Illness and disability, desktop publishing with his beloved wife and son, a night at the movies, online communities are all shot through with the most disarming sense of revelation and Gareth’s eagerness to take the reader by the shoulders, shake him a bit, and say “this is ME, this is who I am. Who are YOU?”

For all of its self-revelation, the book does not have the narcissistic flavor of the contemporary memoir. I believe that is because Gareth is defined as much by his passions as by his personal tribulations and triumphs. By sharing his interests, he is sharing himself and inviting us to live more intensely, more openly, and with only a reasonable regard for the weaknesses that plague us all.

Armed with Curiosity: Gareth Branwyn

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By Tiffany Lee Brown
2:00AM on Jul 30, 2010
Originally posted to the SyFy website (in the Eureka Idea Lab)

Since before you could look at pictures on the World Wide Web, Gareth Branwyn has been exploring the fringes of technology and culture, writing about his findings for Wired, Boing Boing, and in various books, including Jamming the Media. He is currently the Editor in Chief of Make magazine’s online empire of cool stuff. In other words, Gareth knows more than you (neener, neener, neener) and you should listen to him:

Tiffany Lee Brown: Tinkerers and starry-eyed visionaries are your forte; you’ve been a honcho-to-be-reckoned-with at Boing Boing, Wired, Street Tech, and now Make. So tell us: what personality characteristics seem to set people up for being good at inventing, at making?

Gareth Branwyn: Recently, at Maker Faire Bay Area, our annual DIY free-for-all in San Mateo, one of the presenters, Raven Hanna (a scientist-turned-artist who makes molecule jewelry) said of the event: “It reminds us what it feels like to be excited about the world and its possibilities, like when we were young. People probably become makers because they never lost that feeling of wonder and creativity, and so many others are rediscovering it.” 

I think that nails a big piece of it. Makers, hackers, tinkerers, DIYers tend to be relentlessly curious about the world and figuring out how it’s put together. Also, I believe that most scientists, engineers, and inventors–the exceptional ones, anyway–are also part poet/artist. As well-known “gonzo engineer” Steven Roberts says: “Art without engineering is dreaming. Engineering without art is calculating.” I think there are increasing numbers of people who are exploring the margin between these two, and that’s very exciting.

TLB: If a person doesn’t come by it naturally, what should she do to become a better DIY mad scientist, inventor, or hacker?

GB: There are so many ways in these days. First off, armed with that above curiosity, and a decent screwdriver set, you can start by taking things apart. We all have tons of techno-junk in our basements (dead VCRs, cameras, cellphones, computers). Strip it down, explore what makes it tick (steer clear of TVs, btw–dangerous current inside), fire up Google and investigate all of the parts you find. 

Many cities now have hackerspaces or citizen science groups. Find the one nearest you and go to an event. They usually have beginner classes in electronics, robots, chemistry, programming, etc. Check out sites like Make and Instructables for beginner-level projects and try your hand at these. And that leads to another aspect of what makes a good maker/inventor: Not being afraid to fail. Just get in there and get your hands dirty. “DIY” starts with “Do!”

TLB: In your work and play, what scientific theories or advancements have been the most inspiring to you over the years?

GB: Oh, wow. So many amazing ones in my lifetime. Off the top of my head, I’d have to go with:

Feedback. The cybernetic idea of feedback–output from a system being fed back into that system as information (signal/current/data) that alters the present/future state of the system–has had a tremendous impact on everything from guided missile systems, where it was first modernly applied, to the understanding of complex ecosystems to rock and roll (Jimi Hendrix, the first cybernetic musician). I’ve always been fascinated by cybernetics, systems theory, control theory–all fundamentally based on the notion of feedback.

Emergence. The basic idea of emergence is that simple, lower-level interactions in a system can create higher orders of complexity that emerge, or self-organize, from these interactions. Emergence/self-organization is found in biological, artificial, and hybrid systems. One amazing, shining example of emergence: you’re soaking in it: the Internet! There are many examples of emergent properties that have been observed in things like crowdsourcing behavior. Personally, I believe, as stated by Arthur Koestler, that “it is the synergistic effects produced by wholes that are the very cause of the evolution of complexity in nature.”

Entanglement. Quantum entanglement was disagreeably described by Einstein as spooky action at a distance. Basically it describes a phenomenon whereby particles (photons, electrons, qubits) that have come into contact with one another continue to exert an influence over each other regardless of how far apart they may be separated. Spooky, indeed. And this influence is faster than the speed of light. Entanglement has potential applications in quantum computing and quantum cryptography.

TLB: One peek at the Gulf Coast tells us we still haven’t figured out how to balance science, technology, and the natural world. As in Eureka, the advancements we make sometimes wreak major havoc before we can contain them. Do you think armchair scientists and DIY makers can influence that balance in the future?

GB: Absolutely. As of a couple weeks ago, people submitted 122,000 ideas to government offices and BP on how to fix the Gulf oil leak. Seven suggested solutions have been field-tested and are going to be tried out in the Gulf, mainly different approaches to skimming. I think one thing the increasing popularity of the DIY/maker movement has done is get people to think creatively about solutions to problems and allows them to think they might even be able to do something about it. 

When you look at some of the innovations that have come out of the hacker movement, from the hugely popular, open-source, Arduino single-board microcontroller (originally developed by artists for artists), the MakerBot 3D printer, and Sugru, a silicon-based Play-Doh-like substance that’s adhesive, waterproof, heat-resistant, and sets up at room temperature–these were all developed by individuals or small groups with next to no budget. They had a big idea and used the Internet to leverage financing, development, manufacturing, and commercial distribution. For the oil leak, sites like Core77, the design site, have started discussions to brainstorm ideas. I think we’ll see far more crowdsourcing of ideas, and actual solutions, in future situations like this.

TLB: Pick one: personal jetpack, warp drive, or Lee Majors-level bionic implants?

Well, I already have an artificial hip, a rebuilt heart, and get shot up six times a year with tweaked mice proteins (Infliximab) for my arthritic disease. I’m a human/machine/mouse hybrid! So, the whole Lee Majors thing? Old news for me. As William Gibson said: “The future is already here, it’s just not evenly distributed yet.” I get the Joint Journal from my orthopedic clinic and I lust after the new hardware. Time for an upgrade.

If I had to choose, it’d be warp drive, without question. It’s not that I don’t love my Mother Earth, but if I had a choice, I would leave her in a smear of light in my rear-view mirror in a (bionic) heartbeat.

[Photo by Scott Beale/Laughing Squid.]

Introducing Café Gaga, the Podcast

I am thrilled to finally be launching this podcast, which I’ve been wanting to do for a while. The basic idea for the show is “a periodic podcast about what’s on my mind or what’s fallen into my lap.” In each episode, I’ll be talking about projects that I’m working on, things I’ve been thinking about, and media and ideas that have been landing on my virtual desktop and physical doorstep. I’ll also have guests on from time to time, mainly casual conversations with friends to find out what sorts of trouble they’ve been getting up to.

In this first episode, I talk to my pal Michael Taft. Michael is currently writing a book, called The Mindful Geek, that he’s also crowdfunding on Indiegogo. Michael is an accomplished mindfulness meditation teacher, who teaches in the Bay Area and Silicon Valley. I talk to him about his history with meditation, his teaching practice, and his forthcoming book. It was a fun, I hope interesting, conversation and I think a great way to inaugurate the show.

I’d love to get your feedback on the show and if you find it entertaining and useful.

Here are the show notes with links to the things we discussed:

A very special thanks to Michael Taft for being on the show, sound and video editor, Anthony Sunseri for fixing my horrible audio and mixing the show, and AdamD for the the Café Gaga theme song, “In Bright Axiom.”

WINK Review: Remembered for a While

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When English singer/songwriter/musician Nick Drake tragically died in 1974 (ironically from an overdose of anti-depressant medication), he was not tremendously well-known. But in death, his hauntingly beautiful compositions have transformed him into a highly influential musical figure who’s inspired generations of musical artists. In Remembered for a While, his sister, Gabrielle Drake (perhaps best known as the purple-haired Lt. Ellis in the cult-fave 70s British TV series, UFO), has put together a touching and beautiful anthology of all things Nick Drake.

Read the full review here.

Boing Boing Feature: All Quiet on the Martian Front

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Last week, I had the pleasure of writing a piece for Boing Boing about my favorite new tabletop sci-fi wargame, All Quiet on the Martian Front.

It’s 1908. Earth has finally recovered from the terrifying shock of the Martian attacks of 1898 that nearly laid waste to London. While a few of the world’s more cautious leaders, intellectuals, and industrialists call for continued vigilance and defense preparations against the possible return of the deadly mechanized Martian horde, most of the world has fallen back into complacency. Under the cover of this collective sleep, once more, Martian cylinders begin to fall from sky. This time, the Martians land in largely uninhabited areas of the globe, and this time they’ve inoculated themselves against the earthly microbes that proved their undoing in the first invasion. The second wave of the Great Interplanetary War has begun.

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Read the full piece here.

WINK Review: The Think The Book

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WINK is a site that’s dedicated to the unique and glorious qualities of the print book. Similarly, The Thing The Book celebrates all aspects of this amazing medium that revolutionized the world. Created by John Herschend and Will Rogan, the Bay Area artists behind one of my favorite subscription-based art projects, The Thing Quarterly, The Thing The Book gathers together over 30 well-known writers, artists, photographers, and thinkers, and asks them to riff on some traditional element of the book: cover, bookplate, table of contents, footnotes, endnotes, index, endpapers, etc.

Read the full review here.

Last Kickstarter Backer Report of the Year

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Here is the last KS newsletter with a round-up of my Borg Like Me activities for the year.

What’s in Store for 2015

I’ll do some more book readings next year, but mainly I’ll be moving on to other projects. I’m currently working on “The Eros Part: Further Writings on Love, Sex, and Muses,” the third volume in the Borg Like Me chapbook series. This was a reward for a KS backer level and so is my top priority. Realistically, it may not be out until Spring, but I think it’ll be worth the wait. I’m also working on “Sucks-Less, Too,” the follow-up to “Gareth’s Tips on Sucks-Less Writing.”

I might also be launching a casual, periodic podcast, called Café Gaga, that will cover what’s going on at Sparks of Fire Press, weird and wonderful things that are crossing my transom, some conversations with interesting friends doing interesting things, etc. I also have at least one Sparks of Fire collaborative art project I’m planning. And those are just what’s swirling around SoFP and Borg Like Me. I have several other projects in the pipeline I’m pretty excited about and will tell you more about them as soon as I can.

Read the full newsletter here.

Wink Review: Syllabus

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My latest review on WINK, of Lynda Barry’s intensely inspiring Syllabus:

Professor Lynda Barry has been on a roll of late. First, she published her astonishing and inspired writing-workshop-in-a-book, What It Is. She followed that up with Picture This: The Near-sighted Monkey Book, which covered drawing in much the same way that What It Is approached writing. In Syllabus, Barry has published her actual hand-drawn lesson plans from her popular college class entitled “Drawing the Unthinkable.”

Read the entire review here.