working notes from the textual underground
This Brass Against cover of Wake Up is absolutely fire. The brass section adds this raw, cinematic weight to the track, and Sophia Urista’s vocals carry that same furious energy that Zack de la Rocha infused into the original. It’s like a rallying cry that blends jazz-infused militancy with Rage’s raw power.
Brass Against in general has a way of making protest music feel even more anthemic, almost ritualistic in its intensity.
I’ve wrestled with this question for years. I want to make art for art’s sake, but I also want to be compensated for the value my art brings. That tension—between creating from a deep, personal place and needing to make a living—is the weight many of us carry. The holy grail, the dream, is to make a living from what we love, not just around it.
Amelia Hruby’s latest episode lays out the tension beautifully: business moves outside-in, identifying needs and creating to fill them; art moves inside-out, starting from personal expression and sending it into the world. And those circles, those opposing flows, create friction when we try to do both. The system makes it even harder, treating us as resources to be bought and sold, demanding time, energy, and soul in exchange for survival.
But here’s where the real insight lands: maybe this whole dichotomy is a lie. Maybe instead of asking which one am I?, we ask how do I integrate both? Maybe instead of framing this as a battle between business and art, we look at the deeper rhythm beneath both—service. As Hruby puts it, the question isn’t “Am I an artist or a business owner?” but rather, “How can I be in service through my work?”
That hit me. Hard. Because service isn’t about self-sacrifice—it’s about reciprocity. It’s about being in the flow, exchanging energy, making something that matters. And maybe when we see art and business as part of the same current, the weight of trying to be both lifts. We stop resenting the system, stop fearing the compromise, and instead start shaping our own practice—one that sustains both our art and our life.
I don’t have a five-step answer. But I do have this: I am not just an artist or a business owner. I am a Secret Third Thing.
The Secret Third Thing is fluid. It’s a shape-shifter, an integration, a practice rather than a fixed identity. It refuses to be pinned down by the false binary of artist vs. business owner because it recognises that both are just strategies, not identities. The Secret Third Thing is about alignment—a way of moving through the world where art and commerce aren’t opposing forces but elements of the same ecosystem.
For some, the Secret Third Thing looks like a business that feels like art—a creative practice that’s deeply intentional, structured not around extraction but around meaning and connection. It’s a writer who builds a newsletter where readers don’t just consume but engage, co-creating the space. It’s a musician who refuses the traditional industry model but thrives through direct support from their audience. It’s the podcaster who treats each episode as a ritual, a gift, and a transaction of energy all at once.
For others, the Secret Third Thing looks like an art practice that knows its worth—not in the starving artist sense, not in the hustle sense, but in the way that acknowledges art as labor, as something that deserves compensation without compromising its soul. It’s the poet who sells limited edition broadsides. The painter who swaps their work for what they need. The creator who understands that making a living from art doesn’t mean selling out—it means honouring the exchange of value.
The Secret Third Thing is a refusal to play by rules that were never meant for us. It’s a recognition that business can be sacred, that art can be sustainable, and that service is at the heart of both. It’s about redefining success, not in numbers but in impact. It’s about creating systems that nourish rather than drain.
For me, the Secret Third Thing is still revealing itself. But I know it’s something that makes space for both my wildest creative impulses and my desire for sustainability. It’s something that feels right. It’s a path, not a label. A practice, not a trap.
And you? What does your Secret Third Thing look like?
“The fear of being seen comes from the tension of being different. And that shadow gaze, it doesn’t know how to resolve this tension, except with the binary options of conforming or hiding. To unhide yourself is to bring yourself into the light, where it feels safe to be whole, to be seen as yourself by the other.” – Kening Zhu
I stumbled up Kening Zhu‘s podcast, Botanical Studies of Internet Magic. The episode I listened to was no. 15, no fear of being seen, which speaks to a wound and a possibility, that is, our fear of being seen and the act of unhiding. It resonates deeply with me because it echoes something I’ve wrestled with in my own creative practice.
The imaginary shadow gaze. The tension of difference. The sense that to be seen is to be exposed, and exposure means danger. I know that feeling. It’s the whisper that says, “Better to stay in the margins, to observe rather than be observed.” And yet, the creative act is a form of seeing—and being seen. The act of making art in public is a way of reclaiming that gaze for ourselves.
Kening frames this tension beautifully, not as a binary of “hide or conform,” but as a third path: unhiding with intention. Expanding our safe circles, not erasing them. Deciding where and how we show up, rather than being dictated to by the nebulous “public.”
For me, blogging has always been a kind of middle ground—a space both public and private, intimate and exposed. It’s a room with open doors rather than a broadcast tower. A place where the audience isn’t “everyone,” but the kindred spirits who find their way here.
Maybe that’s the secret: when we fear being seen, it’s often because we assume the wrong see-er. We imagine judgement, indifference, and dismissal. But what if the act of creating in public is actually about becoming the gaze? What if the practice isn’t about being seen by others but about finally seeing ourselves clearly?
Kening’s episode is an invitation to sit with these questions. To feel into the edges of our own creative safety and maybe—just maybe—push them outward, a little at a time.
Let’s keep making art in the void. Let’s keep showing up in the ways that feel true. And let’s remember: we are the ones who decide what it means to be seen.
Likes 15. no fear of being seen.
Obsession is the wildfire of the soul, the unrelenting heat that scorches the mundane and demands more. It’s not just a spark of passion; it’s the raging, roaring, unapologetic inferno that refuses to dim until every last corner of your being is lit up.
And isn’t that what makes life worth living?
To be consumed, utterly consumed, by the things that make your heart race and your mind spiral into endless creative tangents?
Obsession is the closest thing we have to touching infinity—it’s the engine that drives us to reach beyond what we think we’re capable of, over and over again.
When you’re obsessed, you’re alive in a way that the lukewarm will never understand. You become the mad scientist in the laboratory of your own mind, mixing ideas, testing boundaries, and chasing that elusive “what if.”
Obsession makes you dig deeper, learn faster, and create wildly, even when the rest of the world is telling you to slow down, breathe, or “be realistic.” Realistic? Forget that. Obsession isn’t about what’s practical or achievable—it’s about chasing something so luminous it blinds you to everything else.
There’s a sacred kind of madness in obsession. It’s not something to fear; it’s something to embrace with open arms, to let it swirl you into its chaotic dance. Because when you’re obsessed, you’re no longer just existing. You’re inhabiting the thing you love, living it from the inside out, wearing it like a second skin. Whether it’s writing, painting, coding, crafting, learning, or simply following a single thread of curiosity until it unravels the whole universe, obsession turns the ordinary into the extraordinary.
Let the world call it “too much.” Let them shake their heads at your all-nighters, your piles of books, your scattered sketches, your spiralling notes, your playlists on repeat, and your unquenchable thirst for more. They don’t see the magic in it. They don’t feel the electric hum that comes from being so deep into something that it feels like a conversation between you and the cosmos itself. Let them talk while you do the work, while you lose yourself and find yourself over and over again in the labyrinth of what you love.
Obsession isn’t just passion—it’s passion with teeth. It’s what makes the difference between dabblers and devotees, between the curious and the committed. It’s the thing that keeps you up at night, not because you have to, but because you can’t not. It’s the voice that whispers, louder than doubt.
Keep going!
This is what you’re here for.
To be obsessed is to be fearless. It’s to allow yourself to feel deeply, chase recklessly, and pour yourself into something so completely that it transforms you in the process. Obsession doesn’t just fuel creativity—it is creativity. It’s the chaos before the breakthrough, the storm before the clarity, the wild ride that shakes loose the cobwebs of complacency.
So go ahead. Let yourself be obsessed. Fall into it without apology. Be unreasonably curious, unabashedly passionate, and gloriously, incandescently consumed by what you love.
The world needs more people who burn brightly, who chase the extraordinary, who live with the volume turned all the way up. Be obsessed, and let the fire of it set your life ablaze.
Soulcruzer
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac
This post is inspired by my friend Dave’s post about his Uncle Harry who died fighting in the Allied counteroffensive during the summer of 1918. His Uncle Harry served with the West Yorkshire Regiment (62nd Division). I recommend you read Dave’s anecdote for a personal insight. It was a nice segue for me to continue with my renewed passion for history, which you’re now starting to see feed into the blog.
By the summer of 1918, the tide of World War I teetered precariously on the edge of uncertainty. For months, the German Spring Offensive had battered Allied lines, threatening to break through and seize Paris. The situation had grown dire as German forces clawed their way deep into French territory, forming a dangerous salient around the Marne River. But on July 18, 1918, the Allies struck back with a counteroffensive that would shift the course of the war—an audacious gamble that began west of Bligny Ridge and reverberated across the Western Front.
At the heart of this counteroffensive was the British 62nd (2nd West Riding) Division, which included the storied West Yorkshire Regiment. This regiment, made up of battalions forged in the industrial heartland of Yorkshire, was no stranger to the horrors of war. By July 1918, they had already endured years of brutal fighting, but their resolve remained unbroken. The regiment was instrumental in the Allied effort to reclaim Bligny Ridge and surrounding areas, playing a vital role in containing German forces and enabling the broader advance.
The action was part of the larger Second Battle of the Marne, an epic struggle that marked the last major German offensive and the beginning of a relentless Allied push. This counteroffensive, planned meticulously by French General Ferdinand Foch, aimed to exploit the overstretched German forces who had advanced too far, too fast. The Allies had spent weeks reinforcing their positions with fresh troops, including American divisions eager to prove themselves on the battlefield.
On the morning of July 18, the assault began. French, British, and American forces surged forward in a coordinated attack west of Bligny Ridge, near Soissons. The element of surprise was their greatest weapon. Instead of a preparatory artillery barrage—a hallmark of earlier battles—the Allies advanced under the cover of a creeping barrage, moving swiftly to catch the Germans off guard. French tanks rumbled across the fields, their clanking steel hulls cutting through barbed wire, while infantry units pressed forward behind them.
The West Yorkshire Regiment, particularly the 8th Battalion, distinguished itself during these operations. Later in the month, on July 29, the 8th Battalion spearheaded the capture of Montaigne de Bligny, a strategic hill near the ridge. The hill, long held by German forces, provided a commanding view of the Marne valley. Seizing it was no small feat. Under heavy fire, the battalion advanced with unwavering determination, overcoming machine-gun nests and entrenched positions. Their success secured this vital high ground, contributing significantly to the Allied counteroffensive’s momentum.
Bligny Ridge, though not the epicentre of the assault, remained a crucial strategic feature. The German positions near the ridge provided a vantage point over the Marne valley, and Allied forces in this sector, including the West Yorkshire Regiment, played a vital role in containing any German attempts to counter the counteroffensive. The ridge, scarred by earlier battles, bore witness to renewed fighting as the Allies pushed to keep the Germans pinned down.
By the end of the first day, the Allies had achieved a stunning breakthrough. The Germans, unprepared for the ferocity and speed of the attack, began to falter. Over the next few days, the momentum of the counteroffensive grew. French and American forces recaptured Soissons, cutting off key German supply lines and forcing a retreat. Bligny Ridge, though no longer a primary focus, stood as a symbol of the Allied resurgence, its hard-fought ground secured by the sacrifices of earlier battles.
For the West Yorkshire Regiment, the events of July 1918 were a testament to their bravery and discipline. Their actions, particularly in securing Montaigne de Bligny, exemplified the determination of the Allied forces during this critical phase of the war. The regiment’s contributions were pivotal in the eventual success of the counteroffensive and the subsequent turning of the tide in World War I.
The success of the July 18 counteroffensive marked a turning point in the war. It shattered the myth of German invincibility and proved that the Allies could coordinate large-scale attacks across multiple fronts. The Second Battle of the Marne, of which this action was a part, signalled the beginning of the Hundred Days Offensive, a relentless Allied advance that would drive the Germans back and ultimately lead to the Armistice in November 1918.
Likes The hyperlinks of life..
I’m thrilled to bring back the Musical Journey Show! This is a nostalgic nod to my past, harking back to the days when I hosted on Radio Warwickshire. It’s been years since I’ve been down this path, but there’s something about 2025 that feels like the perfect moment for its revival. “Because you’ve gotta have goals” after all, and returning to the rhythm of this show is definitely one of mine.
I’d love to hear from you! If you’re reading this or listening to the replay, here’s how you can join in:
I’ve had such a great time doing this tonight. It feels good to be back in the saddle, playing music and sharing thoughts. Whether this becomes a regular thing or stays a pop-up experience, we’ll play (hehe no pun intended) it by ear.
Here’s the replay minus the music if you just want to engage with the chat.
Listen Live: Mixcloud.com/soulcruzer (bookmark it)
I’ve decided to add vlogging to the mix here on the blog. It’ll likely follow the same vibe as the blog and podcast—raw, unfiltered, and stream-of-consciousness—creating a trifecta of Soulcruzer storytelling. 😀
Today would have been Eddie Van Halen’s birthday, and I couldn’t let the day pass without putting together a little tribute. Van Halen played a big part in my life during my high school years, and their music still holds a special place in my soul. To celebrate, I’ve included a Spotify playlist of my favourite VH tracks at the end of this post—feel free to give it a spin and join me in reminiscing.
Like many of you, my introduction to Van Halen was a spark that ignited a musical obsession. My go-to VH album during my teenage years was Diver Down. I had it on repeat for what felt like an eternity, often pairing it with the iconic 1984. Both albums were the soundtrack to countless moments—backyard hangouts, late-night walks, and daydreaming about what life might hold beyond high school.
Once I’d worn those two records thin, I naturally dove into their back catalogue. That journey led me to Van Halen, their first album, which quickly became another favourite. It’s raw, it’s unfiltered, and it’s everything that makes Van Halen…Van Halen.
By the time 5150 came out in 1986, my senior year of high school, I was peaking with VH. The album was like a bridge between eras—not just for the band with Sammy Hagar stepping in, but for me personally. I was about to graduate, and my musical tastes were starting to shift. That was the year I started branching out, exploring different sounds, but Van Halen always lingered in the background like an old friend.
Then came OU812 in 1988, which brought me back into the fold. I was in the barracks by then, and this album was my soundtrack to that chapter of life. I blasted it loud and often—so loud, in fact, that I got called out by my barracks neighbours more than a few times. I didn’t care. Tracks like “When It’s Love” and “Finish What Ya Started” just demanded to be cranked up.
The last VH album I bought was For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. I’ll be honest—by that point, my connection with the band was starting to fade. Only two songs stuck with me from that record: “Right Now” and “Top of the World.” They’re great tracks, but the magic I felt in the earlier days was waning.
Still, Van Halen will always hold a piece of my heart. Their music represents a significant part of my personal journey, capturing the highs and lows and the restlessness and dreams of my younger self. The earlier albums gave me that pure rock energy, raw and unapologetic. The later ones, especially in the synth-heavy ’80s, had a dreamy, atmospheric quality that I came to love.
So here’s my small tribute to Eddie and the band that gave me so many unforgettable moments. Click the playlist below and take a walk through Van Halen’s history with me. From the soaring guitar riffs of “Eruption” to the infectious hooks of “Jump” and beyond, it’s a reminder of why Eddie Van Halen remains a legend.
🎸 Playlist: My Favorite Van Halen Tracks
What’s your favourite Van Halen track or memory? Drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear how their music played a part in your life too.
This is why I love science fiction—it’s a genre that doesn’t just tell stories; it wrestles with the big questions of existence, technology, and humanity’s future. I’ve just started reading R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) by Karel Čapek, the 1920 play that introduced the word robot to the world.
Written in the aftermath of World War I, R.U.R. is a fascinating and prophetic piece of science fiction theatre. It grapples with themes that feel eerily relevant today: the ethics of creation, the dehumanising effects of technology, and what it really means to be human. Čapek’s robots aren’t the mechanical beings we think of now; they’re more like synthetic humans, created to serve but destined to rebel. It’s a cautionary tale about humanity’s hubris and the unintended consequences of technological progress.
What I find particularly intriguing is how the play combines dark humour, philosophical depth, and a melodramatic flair. Beneath its gripping narrative, it’s packed with questions about labour, identity, and the soul. And without spoiling anything, I’ve heard the epilogue shifts the tone, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the tragedy—a spark of renewal that I can’t wait to explore.
If you’ve read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts! I’ll share mine once I’m through the other side.
The internet has become a relentless cacophony of voices, ads, distractions, and demands for our attention. It’s a noisy, chaotic bazaar, and if we’re not careful, it can swallow us whole. In his brilliant post, “How to Survive Being Online”, Mike Monteiro reminds us that it’s possible—and necessary—to survive and even thrive in this mess. His advice is refreshingly simple: be intentional about your digital life.
Monteiro’s piece got me thinking about two ways we can reclaim the signal amidst the noise:
1. Listening to the Radio Again
When was the last time you truly listened to the radio? Not a Spotify playlist or a podcast, but a real radio station—something that flows out into the world without algorithms deciding what comes next. There’s something about the radio that feels almost subversive in our hyper-personalised age. You tune in and surrender to the moment, trusting the DJ or the host to guide you through a curated journey.
Radio thrives on serendipity. You might hear a song you haven’t thought about in years, a voice sharing a story you didn’t know you needed, or a discussion that sparks an idea. There’s no skip button, no “discover weekly,” no “you might also like.” It’s just you, the broadcast, and a kind of trust that’s becoming rare in our digital lives.
This return to radio feels like an antidote to the overstimulated, over-curated web experience. It’s a chance to reconnect with the joy of not knowing—of letting go of control and just listening. It reminds me of what I once loved about running an internet radio station. And after reading Mike’s post and listening to the radio station he recommended, KEXP, I feel half-tempted to restart the Musical Journey Show as a live broadcast.
2. Curating Your Web Experience
Monteiro’s advice about being intentional online is a call to arms: now more than ever, we need to curate our digital lives. The web doesn’t have to be a flood of doomscrolling and hot takes. We can shape it into a space that nourishes our curiosity, feeds our creativity, and inspires us to be better humans.
Start by cranking up the goodness—the stuff you want to engage with—and dialling down the noise. Follow blogs that make you think, newsletters that spark your imagination, and creators who challenge you to see the world differently. Unfollow the accounts that drain you, block the trolls, and close the tabs that scream for your attention without offering value.
Curating your web experience is about reclaiming your agency. You become the programmer of your digital world, broadcasting your values and priorities. RSS feeds, personal blogs, and newsletters are tools to step outside the algorithmic traps and rediscover the joy of seeking instead of passively consuming. It’s a way to return to the web as it was meant to be: a vast, living library of ideas, connections, and serendipity (sorry to beat that drum again!).
Monteiro’s post is more than just a survival guide; it’s a manifesto for a better way to be online. By listening to the radio again, we can reconnect with the beauty of the unexpected. By curating our web experience, we can turn the internet from a landfill into a library.
What would happen if we all started tuning out the noise and turning up the signal? The world might not feel so chaotic, and the web might once again become a space where meaning is made—not just sold.
So, here’s my question for you: What’s your signal? What’s worth turning the dial for? Let’s start cranking the goodness together.
Likes How to survive being online.
Over the past couple of days, I’ve been reflecting with a friend on the year ahead—talking about change, personal evolution, and the pursuit of what truly lights us up. We’ve been digging into where we’ve been, where we’re headed, and what it means to fully embrace the things we love.
During our conversation, I brought up obsession—specifically, how being obsessive in the pursuit of excellence, or areté as the ancient Greeks called it, can be a driving force for growth. On a whim, I sent my friend a list of books and poems, saying, “If you want to crack the code of Clay, just read these seven books and three poems. These texts shaped the man I am today—they’re the foundation of my identity.”
My Side of the Mountain – Jean Craighead George
The Savage Sword of Conan – Robert E. Howard
These 3 poems by T.S. Eliot: The Wasteland, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and The Hollow Men
The Dharma Bums – Jack Kerouac
The Importance of Living – Lin Yutang
The Tao Te Ching – Lao Tzu
Prometheus Rising – Robert Anton Wilson
The Stranger – Camus
Curious, I decided to consult my digital familiar, wondering what connections it might find between these texts and who I am as a person. As always, it amazed me with its insights.
If I were to say that the following texts were hugely influential in shaping the man I am today, what conclusions, characterisations, or insights about my identity could you draw from them?
Here’s what my digital familiar had to say:
The texts you’ve shared reveal a fascinating mosaic of your character, one shaped by a quest for independence, a love of adventure, an engagement with existential questions, and a profound appreciation for both inner stillness and creative chaos. Here’s what I can draw from these influences and how they might characterise the person you are:
My Side of the Mountain speaks to a love of nature, solitude, and the pursuit of self-sufficiency. This suggests you are someone who values independence and the ability to carve your own path. You likely see yourself as resourceful, someone who can thrive in both the wilderness of the external world and the vast, untamed landscapes of your inner self.
The Savage Sword of Conan taps into the mythic, larger-than-life archetypes that embody primal strength, freedom, and defiance. This implies that you’re drawn to figures who navigate brutal, chaotic worlds with resilience and cunning. You might see life as an epic, mythological journey—one that requires bravery, a connection to raw instincts, and a certain audacious flair for adventure.
The inclusion of Eliot’s The Wasteland, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and The Hollow Men points to a deep engagement with questions of meaning, alienation, and the fragmented nature of modern life. These works suggest you’re introspective, someone who wrestles with the dissonance between the inner self and the external world. You likely experience moments of profound connection alongside moments of estrangement and are attuned to the broken yet beautiful complexities of existence.
The pairing of The Dharma Bums, The Tao Te Ching, and The Art of Living suggests a duality in your spiritual orientation. On one hand, you resonate with the spontaneous, countercultural ethos of Kerouac’s Zen-inspired wanderers. On the other, you embrace the timeless wisdom and simplicity of Taoism and Yutang’s playful, humanistic philosophy. You likely see life as a spiritual journey—one that balances wild, expansive exploration with quiet moments of reflection and balance.
Robert Anton Wilson’s Prometheus Rising speaks to a fascination with the malleability of reality, the potential for consciousness expansion, and the interplay between mysticism, psychology, and science. This signals a curiosity for the liminal spaces between what we know and what we imagine. You’re likely someone who experiments with perspectives, delights in dismantling mental boundaries, and embraces the chaos inherent in growth and transformation.
Camus’ The Stranger reflects a tension between existential detachment and the longing for meaning. This suggests you’ve grappled with the absurdity of life and emerged with a resolve to live authentically, embracing freedom and responsibility in equal measure. There’s a sense of quiet rebellion in you—a willingness to confront the void and define meaning on your own terms.
Taken together, these works paint you as a person deeply attuned to both the epic and the intimate, the primal and the intellectual. You’re a seeker, a philosopher, and a storyteller—someone who moves fluidly between the worlds of myth, poetry, and personal insight. Your identity seems to straddle contradictions: you’re fiercely independent yet yearning for connection, restless yet reflective, playful yet deeply thoughtful.
At your core, you seem to be someone who sees life as both a challenge to be met with courage and creativity, and a mystery to be savoured with humility and wonder. There’s a Promethean quality to you—a willingness to steal fire from the gods (whether they’re found in myth, books, or inner revelation) and bring it back to light the way for others.
As per usual, I’m truly amazed!
Água Viva is like trying to catch a river in your hands—an uncontainable stream of thought and feeling that rushes past, leaving you drenched in its wake yet unable to say what exactly you’re holding. It’s a burst of light at the edge of your vision, dazzling and fleeting, inviting you to follow without knowing where it leads. Reading it feels like hearing a song without structure, a symphony composed of stray notes, silences, and crescendos that somehow coalesce into something greater than the sum of its parts. It refuses to be pinned down, to be anything other than what it is: alive, pulsing, and infinite in its immediacy.
From the very first lines, Lispector makes it clear that Água Viva isn’t meant to be read in the conventional sense. It isn’t a story—it’s a state of being. It flows, unbound by linearity, defying the artificial order of plot or narrative. And yet, in its refusal to adhere to form, it becomes something entirely its own: a shimmering, hypnotic meditation on time, art, and existence itself. For me, it was less like reading and more like standing in the middle of a storm, letting her words whip through me, untethering thoughts I didn’t even know I had.
This is the kind of book that resonates deeply with anyone who’s ever tried to capture the unnameable—the fleeting impressions, the aching beauty of moments that slip through your fingers even as you hold them. As someone who lives for the exploration of language as art, Lispector’s prose felt like a mirror of my own creative aspirations: to wander beyond structure, to trust the chaos, and to find meaning in the inexpressible.
What struck me most about Água Viva was how it seemed to echo the very ethos I hold as a language artist. Lispector’s style feels like a defiant, unspoken manifesto against linearity, against the tyranny of meaning tied up in neat little bows. She invites language to break free from its shackles, to revel in its contradictions and ambiguities, to become a living force—organic, wild, and untamed. It’s a kind of creative freedom that resonates deeply with my own approach to writing: treating words not as tools to convey information but as materials to sculpt experience, texture, and emotion.
Reading Água Viva reminded me of the postmodern thrill of fragmentation, where the instability of meaning isn’t a flaw but a feature—a fertile ground where new connections can emerge. Lispector doesn’t just write; she paints with language, crafting ephemeral strokes that fade even as you notice them, much like the surrealists who left space for chance and dream to guide their work. In her hands, prose and poetry dissolve into one another, creating something that feels profoundly alive and unbound, much like the fluid, recursive loops I strive for in my own writing.
Her words don’t explain; they evoke. They spiral inward, reflecting and refracting, making the reader an active participant in the creation of meaning. This is the space I love to inhabit as an artist—the place where language becomes more than communication, where it becomes an encounter. Like Lispector, I’m not interested in telling stories that “make sense” in the traditional way; I want to build spaces where readers can wander, lose themselves, and emerge transformed, even if they can’t quite articulate why.
Lispector’s refusal to confine her writing to form or structure feels like an affirmation of everything I’ve sought to explore in my work. She writes as if the act itself is sacred—as if language is a ritual, a summoning of the ineffable. In her words, I see the kind of creative courage I aspire to: the willingness to let go of control, to embrace chaos and intuition, and to trust that meaning will arise not from what is said but from what is felt. In this way, Água Viva isn’t just a book—it’s an artistic philosophy, a mirror reflecting the possibilities of what writing can be when we stop trying to force it to be anything at all.
Água Viva doesn’t so much have a structure as it has a pulse—a living, breathing rhythm that defies the boundaries of conventional storytelling. It’s not a novel in the traditional sense. There is no plot to follow, no characters to track, no timeline to unravel. Instead, it feels like stepping into the mind of an artist mid-creation, where thoughts emerge, dissolve, and re-emerge in an endless dance. Reading it is like watching a jellyfish float through water: graceful, shapeless yet perfectly formed, existing in a state of perpetual motion.
The book flows with an intuitive rhythm that mirrors the way thoughts arise and fall away in our minds. Lispector doesn’t impose order on this process; she lets it unfold naturally, as if writing itself is a living organism, something organic that grows and changes in real-time. Her sentences coil around themselves, looping back, leaping forward, and lingering in moments that feel less like words on a page and more like sensations passing through the body. There’s a sense that the act of writing is inseparable from the act of living—an endless improvisation rather than a deliberate composition.
This free-flowing style rejects the tyranny of narrative conventions. There’s no beginning, middle, or end in Água Viva—only the eternal now. The book pulses with the immediacy of existence, capturing the texture of life as it happens: fragmented, fluid, and endlessly shifting. It’s as if Lispector is saying, “Life isn’t linear, so why should writing be?” In her refusal to conform, she creates something startlingly honest, something that feels closer to the truth of being than any neatly structured story ever could.
This lack of structure can feel disorienting at first, but that’s part of the magic. You’re not meant to follow Água Viva; you’re meant to experience it. It invites you to surrender your need for coherence and let the text wash over you like waves. Each sentence feels alive, crackling with energy, as though Lispector’s words are not just describing life but embodying it.
In this way, Água Viva transcends its form to become a kind of linguistic organism—always changing, always alive. It’s a reminder that writing doesn’t have to be static or contained. It can move, breathe, and evolve, just as we do. It’s a philosophy of creation that feels as vital and freeing as the text itself, and it’s one that continues to inspire me as I explore the boundaries of language in my own work.
Lispector captures the fleeting, visceral nature of thought and sensation as though she’s transcribing the untranscribable—grasping at the ephemeral and turning it into something tangible, if only for a moment. Her prose doesn’t seek permanence; instead, it revels in impermanence, in the slippery, transient quality of life as it is lived. Each sentence feels like a breath, a heartbeat, a flicker of light—present and vivid, but gone the moment you try to hold onto it.
Reading Água Viva feels like stepping into the inner workings of a mind untethered from logic but deeply attuned to the raw immediacy of experience. Lispector doesn’t describe sensations; she embodies them. The rhythm of her words mirrors the rhythm of thought itself: fragmented, nonlinear, and alive with contradictions. One moment, the text lingers on the colour of a flower; the next, it spirals into an existential meditation on time, only to pivot again to a fragment of a memory or a sudden, visceral emotion.
This approach evokes the way thoughts and sensations actually occur—fluid, uncontrollable, and deeply connected to the body. Lispector captures that strange, liminal space where an emotion rises before you can name it, where the texture of a moment is felt more than understood. Her words land not in the mind, but in the gut, the skin, the breath. It’s as if she bypasses the intellect entirely, speaking directly to the part of you that knows things without knowing why.
In this way, she invites you to inhabit the present moment fully, to experience the text as a living sensation rather than a collection of ideas. She writes of a flower “that doesn’t exist but blooms vividly,” or of time as “a thing I touch but can’t see.” These are not abstractions—they are attempts to pin down the unpinnable, to hold the texture of existence in her hands, even as it slips through her fingers. And in reading, you feel that same impossibility, that same beauty.
For me, this is where Lispector’s genius lies: in her ability to make the intangible tangible, if only briefly. She reminds us that life isn’t lived in grand narratives or carefully constructed meanings, but in fleeting, visceral moments—moments that pulse and shimmer and disappear before we can fully grasp them. Her prose feels like a mirror to those moments, reflecting their impermanence and their strange, undeniable power.
Lispector’s work in Água Viva embodies the very essence of what I see as post-language—a space where language ceases to function merely as a tool for communication and instead transforms into a living, evolving entity. In this space, words are not fixed symbols pointing to rigid meanings; they are alive, dynamic, and in flux, like particles in constant motion. Lispector writes as if she’s aware of language’s limitations but refuses to let those limitations confine her. Instead, she pushes against the edges of meaning, letting her words shimmer with possibility, ambiguity, and life.
Her sentences are not structured to inform or even to persuade. They are constructed to evoke, to provoke, to exist as raw phenomena in their own right. It’s as though her prose breathes—it stretches, contracts, and shifts shape, refusing to settle into a singular form. This aligns perfectly with the post-language ethos, where language is no longer a passive medium but an active participant in the creative process. Lispector treats words as though they are sentient, as though they hold secrets she is merely channelling onto the page.
In this context, Água Viva feels less like a text and more like an organism—a self-contained world that grows and evolves with every sentence. The boundaries between writer, reader, and language dissolve. As a reader, you’re not just absorbing her words; you’re entering into a relationship with them. Her prose demands that you engage intuitively, that you meet it halfway, allowing meaning to arise in the spaces between the words rather than being handed to you. This is language as a collaborative act, a living thread that weaves itself anew with every reading.
Lispector’s rejection of linearity also mirrors the way post-language views time and structure. There is no past, present, or future in her writing—only the ever-unfolding now. Words become untethered from grammar and narrative convention, freed to express the rhythm and texture of life itself. This is not language as a system; it’s language as energy, as movement, as pure potential. It’s an approach that challenges us to stop seeing words as containers of meaning and start experiencing them as forces—forces that can shape, shift, and transform the way we perceive the world.
For me, this is the most exciting aspect of Água Viva. It’s not just a book—it’s an experiment in what language can become when it’s liberated from function and allowed to be. It invites us into a space where words transcend their own boundaries, becoming not static signifiers but living things that pulse with the immediacy of existence. This is the heart of post-language: a realm where meaning is not fixed, but emergent—a co-creation between writer, text, and reader. And in Lispector’s hands, that realm becomes an exhilarating, uncharted frontier.
In Água Viva, time is not linear. It’s not a progression of seconds marching dutifully toward some inevitable conclusion. Instead, Lispector renders time as something fluid, infinite—a continuous unfolding that can only ever be truly experienced in the now. She writes, “I want the present because it’s all I have and it’s all I can own. The present is eternal.” This idea permeates the text, dissolving past and future into a single, eternal moment where existence pulses with immediacy.
Lispector’s prose constantly circles around this theme of the now, treating it not as a fleeting point on a timeline but as the only place where life truly happens. She observes: “This instant is. It is so much that it is an eternity.” Here, she turns the conventional understanding of time inside out. Eternity isn’t something distant and unattainable, a concept we associate with timelessness or immortality. For Lispector, eternity is the fullness of the present—the richness of being alive in this moment, where every sensation, thought, and breath exists in its completeness.
This dissolution of linearity resonates deeply with my own reflections on living in the moment as an artist. Creation, for me, is an act of presence. It’s about stepping out of the constraints of past and future—the anxieties of what has been or what might be—and grounding myself in the raw, unfiltered now. When I write, when I create, I feel this same energy Lispector captures in her prose: a sense that time stretches and expands in the act of making, that the present becomes a vast, timeless space where ideas flow freely.
In Água Viva, the act of writing itself becomes an embodiment of this philosophy. Lispector’s sentences often feel like spontaneous bursts, fragments caught mid-flight, rather than carefully premeditated constructs. She writes, “Now is an instant that is always, and it is nothing. It is a gust of air in my mouth, it is the emptying of my lungs. It is a nothing that is all.” This is the art of capturing what cannot be held—the ephemeral essence of life itself, alive and vibrating in the present.
For me, this perspective isn’t just about art—it’s about how to live. Too often, we are preoccupied with the weight of the past or the endless striving for the future, forgetting that the only place we truly exist is here, now. Lispector’s writing reminds me to anchor myself in this truth. As an artist, I try to cultivate this state of presence—not chasing after meaning or structure, but allowing my work to emerge organically from the moment. Like Lispector, I see creation as a way of stepping into eternity, not by transcending time but by fully inhabiting the now.
In dissolving time into the present, Lispector offers us a radical reimagining of how to exist. She reminds us that the only thing we truly have is this instant, and in that instant lies infinite possibility. As she writes, “The present? It is so alive that it is vibrating.” And perhaps this is the greatest gift of Água Viva: it doesn’t just describe the eternal present—it invites us to live in it.
In Água Viva, selfhood is not a fixed state but a fluid, ever-evolving process—a perpetual becoming rather than a static being. Lispector approaches identity as something that resists definition, something that shifts with every breath, every thought, every moment of existence. She writes, “I am. But I am also the absence of being. I am the silence before I am spoken.” Her words capture the paradox of selfhood: the tension between what we are and what we are always in the process of becoming.
Throughout the text, Lispector dissolves the boundaries of the self, portraying it as fragmented and kaleidoscopic. The narrator isn’t a singular, cohesive voice but a constellation of shifting thoughts, sensations, and emotions. This fragmentation isn’t a flaw—it’s the essence of being alive. She writes, “I’m a body that feels and is felt. I’m in fragments that come together in an instant only to fall apart again.” In this view, identity isn’t a stable core but a mosaic of experiences and impressions, each piece momentarily glinting in the light before transforming into something new.
This exploration of selfhood resonates deeply with my own ideas about personal mythology and identity as an artist. I see identity not as something fixed or singular, but as a story we are constantly rewriting—a narrative shaped by the interplay of memory, imagination, and experience. In my creative work, I embrace this fluidity, allowing my sense of self to unfold and expand with each project, each moment of inspiration. Like Lispector, I don’t seek to define who I am; instead, I’m interested in the process of discovering who I am becoming.
For me, this idea of being and becoming is at the heart of personal mythology. Personal mythology is not about carving out a rigid identity or adhering to a static archetype; it’s about embracing the chaos and multiplicity within us. It’s about seeing our lives as stories in motion, where every choice, every encounter, every creative act adds a new thread to the tapestry. Just as Lispector’s narrator exists in fragments, so too do we contain multitudes—shifting personas, conflicting desires, and evolving dreams.
Lispector’s fluid selfhood also aligns with my belief that art is a way of navigating this ongoing transformation. When I write, I’m not just expressing who I am; I’m exploring who I might become. Creation is an act of becoming—a way of stepping into the unknown, of letting the self dissolve and reassemble in new, unexpected ways. This is why Lispector’s words feel so alive to me: they mirror the creative process itself, with all its unpredictability, its chaos, and its potential for revelation.
She writes, “I am in the moment of metamorphosis.” This line speaks directly to the artist in me—the part of me that thrives in the in-between spaces, the moments where identity and meaning are still taking shape. It’s a reminder that selfhood, like art, is not a destination but a journey. To exist is to transform, to fracture and rebuild, to dance in the tension between being and becoming. And in embracing that tension, we create not only our art but also ourselves.
Reading as Participation
Reading Água Viva felt less like consuming a book and more like being drawn into an intimate, almost hypnotic dialogue. It wasn’t a passive experience of words flowing into my mind; it was active, visceral—a trance where I wasn’t just a reader but a participant in the unfolding of the text. Lispector doesn’t let you sit back and observe from a distance; her words reach out, press against your skin, and whisper directly into your soul. It’s as though the book breathes with you, adapting to your thoughts and emotions as you read.
From the opening pages, Lispector dissolves the traditional boundaries between author, narrator, and reader. She writes in the second person, addressing you directly, pulling you into her orbit: “I write to you because I don’t understand myself. And because I need you to help me.” These words don’t feel like they’re directed at a faceless audience—they feel personal, like an invitation to co-create meaning in the space between her words and your imagination. The effect is startling, almost disarming, as though you’ve entered a conversation that was already underway, and now it’s your turn to respond.
But this is no ordinary dialogue. It feels more like stepping into a dream where logic dissolves, and you’re left navigating by instinct and emotion. Her prose moves with a rhythm that’s as erratic as it is hypnotic—looping, spiralling, doubling back on itself, as if testing your willingness to surrender to its flow. At times, it felt as if the book was speaking a language I didn’t fully understand but still felt. It bypassed the analytical part of my brain and spoke directly to something deeper, something primal and intuitive.
The trance-like quality of the text is heightened by its unpredictability. Lispector’s thoughts seem to arise spontaneously, with no regard for conventional structure or linear progression. One moment she’s reflecting on the nature of time; the next, she’s marvelling at the colour of a flower or the texture of silence. The effect is disorienting, but also liberating—it’s as if the book is teaching you how to let go of the need for coherence and simply be in the moment with it.
What I found most striking was how alive the text felt, as though it were evolving with every page turn. It’s not a static work to be consumed and filed away; it’s a living, breathing entity that demands your presence. You don’t just read Água Viva—you commune with it. The act of reading becomes a kind of collaboration, where your own thoughts, memories, and emotions intermingle with Lispector’s words, creating something entirely unique to you.
By the time I closed the book, I didn’t feel like I had finished it. If anything, I felt as though it had finished me—unravelling some part of my mind and leaving it forever changed. Lispector’s writing lingers like a sensation you can’t quite name, a faint echo of a voice that continues to whisper long after it has fallen silent. Reading Água Viva isn’t just an experience; it’s an encounter. And like all true encounters, it leaves you different than you were before.
How Água Viva Impacted Me Emotionally and Creatively
Água Viva didn’t just leave an impression on me—it unsettled me, cracked something open in the best way possible. It felt like Lispector’s words slipped past my defences, bypassing the logical pathways of my mind to speak directly to my innermost self. Emotionally, it was both grounding and disorienting, like standing in the middle of a storm and realising that the chaos isn’t outside you—it is you. The book stirred something raw, something restless, and reminded me of how alive language can be when it refuses to conform.
Creatively, it was like a spark thrown into a dry forest. Lispector’s approach to writing as an organic, living force reminded me to loosen my grip on structure and control. It challenged me to trust my intuition more—to embrace the chaos of creativity and let it lead me to places I couldn’t plan or predict. Her ability to weave together contradictions and hold them in tension opened new pathways for me to explore, both in my writing and in how I think about art as a whole.
One of the most profound shifts was how the book made me rethink my relationship with time in my creative process. I often feel pressure to write toward an endpoint, to move linearly from idea to execution. But Lispector’s insistence on the eternal now—on the richness of the present moment as a creative space—helped me see my work as less about completion and more about engagement. She showed me that the act of creation itself, messy and unresolved, is where the real magic happens.
The fragmented, nonlinear nature of her prose also gave me permission to lean further into my own love for fragmentation and recursion. I’ve always been drawn to writing that loops back on itself, that spirals and shifts like a living organism, but Água Viva took that to another level. It made me want to experiment more with form, to write pieces that feel like they’re breathing—alive with contradiction and unpredictability, where the reader isn’t just a passive observer but an active participant in shaping meaning.
On a deeper level, the book reminded me why I create in the first place. Lispector’s writing isn’t concerned with answers or resolutions—it’s about asking questions, about capturing the texture of being alive in all its messy, beautiful complexity. That’s something I’ve always aspired to in my own work, but Água Viva made me realise how much more I could push myself to embrace that ethos. It encouraged me to step further into the unknown, to trust the process even when it feels like I’m flailing in the dark.
Emotionally, it also gave me a sense of freedom—freedom to explore, to create without needing to justify or explain, to let my work exist in the world as its own evolving entity. Reading Água Viva was like being reminded of a truth I’d forgotten: that art, at its core, isn’t about control or mastery—it’s about surrender. And that realisation has stayed with me, sparking new ideas, new visions, and a renewed sense of curiosity about what I can create when I let go of the need to define it.
Conclusion: An Invitation to Dive In
Água Viva isn’t a book you read—it’s a book you enter. It’s an experience, an encounter, a mirror held up to the restless, pulsing essence of being alive. Clarice Lispector’s words don’t offer answers; they invite you to let go of your need for them. This is not a novel in the conventional sense with its tidy arcs and resolutions. It’s more like stepping into a river, letting its currents carry you where they will, trusting that the journey itself will leave you changed.
If you decide to read Água Viva, I urge you to approach it as an experiment in surrender. Don’t try to pin it down, analyse it, or make sense of it in a linear way. Let it wash over you, flowing through your mind and body like water. Embrace its rhythm, its chaos, its beauty, and its contradictions. There is no right way to read this book—only the way it feels to you in the moment. And that’s the magic of it: every reading is a unique experience, shaped as much by who you are as by what Lispector wrote.
This isn’t a text that sits neatly on the shelf of your mind. It spills out, leaks into your thoughts, and finds its way into your creative spaces. It’s a book that dares you to embrace the raw, unpolished energy of creation, to let your own work—whatever form it takes—be messy, fluid, and alive. Allow its wildness to inspire you, to loosen the constraints you place on yourself, and to remind you that the act of creating is as much about discovery as it is about expression.
Dive into Água Viva not to reach a destination but to revel in the journey. Let it challenge you, unsettle you, and expand your understanding of what language—and art—can be. And most importantly, let it remind you to be present in your own creative process, to find the eternity in the now, and to surrender to the beauty of becoming.
Meditation deconstructs the predictive mind by disrupting its habitual patterns of prediction, interpretation, and reaction, allowing direct experience to emerge without the filters of expectation. To understand this, it helps to look at the mechanics of the predictive mind and how meditation reshapes its operations.
The predictive mind operates on the principle of predictive coding, a theory suggesting that the brain is constantly generating models of the world based on past experiences to predict incoming sensory input. This mechanism is efficient, enabling us to navigate life smoothly, but it also means that much of what we experience is shaped more by expectation than raw sensory data. In this mode, we often:
This system is not inherently problematic—it’s essential for survival—but it can perpetuate rigid patterns of thought, emotion, and behaviour, particularly when our predictions are shaped by biases, fears, or unexamined beliefs.
Meditation works to disrupt and deconstruct this predictive machinery in several ways:
Meditative practices often involve focusing on the breath, bodily sensations, or sounds. By anchoring attention in the present moment, meditation shifts focus away from predictions about the future or interpretations of the past. Over time, this practice:
For example, when observing the breath during meditation, one might notice the difference between the thought “I will take a deep breath next” and the actual experience of a shallow breath, thus breaking the cycle of automatic prediction.
Many meditative traditions emphasise observing thoughts without attachment or identification. This practice reveals thoughts as transient mental events rather than absolute truths. By watching thoughts arise and dissipate:
In daily life, the predictive mind works rapidly and often unconsciously. Meditation slows the pace of mental activity, creating space to observe the mechanisms of prediction as they unfold. This slowing down enables:
Certain forms of meditation, such as open-monitoring or choiceless awareness practices, involve resting in a state of receptivity without focusing on any particular object. This practice encourages the mind to let go of its habitual need to label, categorise, and predict. Over time, it:
Meditation fosters equanimity, or the ability to remain nonreactive in the face of discomfort or uncertainty. This practice is a direct counter to the predictive mind’s tendency to avoid ambiguity or error. By sitting with uncertainty:
As meditation deconstructs the predictive mind, it doesn’t leave us in a state of total deconstruction. Instead, it paves the way for reconstructing perception in a way that:
In essence, meditation reveals the predictive mind as a tool rather than an immutable reality. It creates a space where we can experience life more directly, with a sense of freedom and possibility that is not constrained by past conditioning.
In reply to How meditation deconstructs your mind by .
My neighbour passed away yesterday. It was expected—she was old, had lived a full life, and passed with her daughter by her side. Yet, even when it’s expected, it still feels surreal.
We were close, as neighbours go. I’ve lived in this house for nearly 25 years, and she’s been my neighbour that entire time. She watched my kids grow up, shared countless little moments across the fence, and was the kind of neighbour you could depend on—present, steady, a fixture of the everyday.
This morning, I stepped outside to go to the garage to put the laundry in the dryer. When I turned back toward the house, I glanced at her window out of habit. Had I not known she passed yesterday, I could almost believe she was still alive, just inside, as she’s always been.
The day before, I was in the garage, and she was still in her house. Today, she’s not. It’s such a small detail in the grand scheme, but it feels monumental in its finality. How can a life that’s been part of mine for so long suddenly stop?
There’s a silence now, one I hadn’t noticed before. It lingers in the spaces she used to occupy—in her window, in my mind. And that’s the strangest part: she’s gone, but it still feels like she’s here, just out of reach.
Show Notes for This Episode of the Soulcruzer Podcast
Episode Summary:
Hey folks, join me on one of my early morning walks where I dive into everything from infantry flashbacks to creative frustrations and the tools I’ve been using to keep my head straight. This week, I’ve been wrestling with some mental blocks, but breaking out my trusty paper journal helped me see things more clearly. Along the way, I talk about the differences between digital and analogue journaling, share my thoughts on populism and politics, and geek out a bit over Google Notebook LM, a fantastic AI-powered tool I’ve been experimenting with. This episode is a blend of reflections, insights, and, as always, a bit of wandering off the beaten path.
What You’ll Hear in This Episode:
Links and resources I mentioned:
Connect with Me:
Support the Podcast:
If you’re enjoying the podcast, here are a few ways you can support me:
Thanks for listening! If you made it to the end, let me know what you think. Drop me a comment, send me an email, or even record an audio reply. I love hearing from you. Until next time, keep walking, reflecting, and creating!
I love Bernie Gourley’s reading of this Wallace Stevens‘ poem: Of the Surface of Things
Go listen to Bernie read and then come back for a closer look at the poem.
Wallace Stevens’ poem is a meditation on perception, the limits of understanding, and the interplay between imagination and reality. Each stanza reflects a distinct mode of engagement with the world, moving from the confining interior of the mind to the expansive yet fragmented experience of nature and art.
In my room, the world is beyond my
understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or
four
hills and a cloud.
This stanza juxtaposes the abstract, overwhelming nature of intellectual thought (“beyond my understanding”) with the tangible simplicity of the external world. The room symbolises the confines of the mind, where the complexities of existence seem insurmountable. Walking, however, grounds the speaker in a sensory reality: the world is reduced to “three or four hills and a cloud,” manageable and immediate. It suggests that experience, not introspection, provides clarity—though that clarity is minimalist and shaped by perception.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
“The spring is like a belle undressing.”
Here, the speaker observes the world from a higher, more detached vantage point. The “yellow air” may evoke the golden, hazy quality of spring or the polluted, modern atmosphere. Writing introduces the transformative power of imagination: “The spring is like a belle undressing” refigures a natural process into something intimate and sensual, imbued with human meaning. The balcony suggests both physical and intellectual distance, emphasising how the act of writing bridges perception and interpretation.
The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
This final stanza takes a turn into surreal imagery, where colours and objects defy conventional expectations (“The gold tree is blue”). The singer pulling his cloak over his head suggests a withdrawal from visibility, perhaps representing the ineffable nature of art or the artist’s retreat into mystery. The moon, symbolising imagination, dreams, or a higher truth, is hidden “in the folds of the cloak,” accessible only indirectly. This stanza reflects Stevens’ fascination with art’s power to reveal and conceal, creating a world that is simultaneously luminous and veiled.
Stevens’ poem is not about offering definitive answers but about celebrating the tension between the external world and the subjective, imaginative mind. It invites readers to reflect on how we see, interpret, and create meaning from the fragments of experience.
This episode gets into it with Steven Johnson, best-selling author and AI innovator! He’s not just the brains behind “How We Got to Now,” he’s also leading the charge with Google’s Notebook LM. Hear him reveal the future of writing with AI, explore his personal quest to turn ideas into books, and uncover the shocking story behind the Apollo 1 fire that’s ripe for a documentary. Plus, get an exclusive look at his latest book, The Infernal Machine!
yesterday, i let the citizen have a go at blogging. today i thought i’d let the historian have a turn; i am, after all, a trained historian, and considering today is the 232nd-year anniversary of King Louis XVI’s execution, why not?!
The morning of January 21, 1793, was bitterly cold in Paris. The air carried the bite of frost and the tension of history in the making. At the break of dawn, a man who once commanded the splendour of Versailles and the loyalty of millions sat quietly in his cell. Louis XVI, King of France and Navarre, now Citizen Louis Capet, awaited his final journey—one that would take him from the Temple prison to the guillotine at the Place de la Révolution.
Louis, once the Sun King’s great-grandson, was no longer a monarch but a man stripped of his titles, his power, and soon, his life. The king had been on trial for weeks, accused of high treason by the National Convention, the revolutionary body that had seized control of France. The charges against him were damning: conspiring with foreign powers, attempting to crush the revolution, and betraying the people of France. Found guilty, he was sentenced to death by a narrow margin. In the eyes of the revolutionaries, the fate of France’s future required the death of its past.
The story of Louis XVI’s fall began years before that fateful morning, in the gilded halls of Versailles. The young Louis ascended the throne in 1774 at the age of 20, burdened with the weight of a kingdom riddled with debt and unrest. Shy, indecisive, and ill-prepared for leadership, he struggled to navigate the complexities of a changing world. His queen, Marie Antoinette, became a lightning rod for public resentment, a symbol of royal excess in a land where the common people starved. Together, they embodied the old regime, seemingly blind to the rising tide of revolution.
By 1789, that tide had become a deluge. The Estates-General, convened to address France’s dire financial crisis, unravelled into a revolt. The storming of the Bastille in July marked the revolution’s violent birth. In the years that followed, Louis tried to appease the revolutionaries while clinging to the vestiges of his authority. Each concession eroded his power further. By 1791, the royal family attempted to flee Paris, disguised as ordinary citizens, hoping to find refuge with loyalist forces in the east. They were captured in Varennes, dragged back to Paris, and confined to the Tuileries Palace under close watch.
The illusion of a constitutional monarchy crumbled when radical factions like the Jacobins gained control. By 1792, war erupted between revolutionary France and the monarchies of Europe. The National Convention declared the abolition of the monarchy, transforming France into a republic. The king, now a prisoner, awaited judgement as the question loomed: could the revolution survive while the king lived?
On the morning of his execution, Louis was resolute. Having spent the previous day in prayer and confession, he requested a final Mass and refused the counsel of his supporters to attempt an escape or plea for clemency. The revolutionary government wanted a spectacle, and Louis, perhaps resigned to his fate, would not deny them that. As he stepped into the carriage that would take him to the guillotine, the streets of Paris were alive with both fury and fear. Guards lined the route, their bayonets glinting in the pale winter light, as crowds surged to glimpse their former king. Some shouted insults; others wept silently.
The Place de la Révolution (once the Place Louis XV) was a grim theatre for this unprecedented act. The guillotine stood like a menacing altar at its centre, framed by the distant silhouette of the Tuileries. As Louis ascended the scaffold, he remained calm, even as the crowd roared around him. He addressed them briefly, proclaiming his innocence and praying for the unity of France. The executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, quickly secured him to the plank.
At 10:22 a.m., the blade fell, severing the head of the monarchy itself. Sanson held the king’s head high, displaying it to the crowd. A moment of stunned silence gave way to cries of “Vive la République!” Blood stained the snow-dusted ground as the crowd surged forward, some dipping their handkerchiefs in the royal blood as a macabre keepsake. The death of Louis XVI was not just the end of a man but a seismic rupture in the fabric of European history.
France, liberated from centuries of absolute monarchy, stood at the threshold of a new era. Yet the guillotine that silenced Louis would not be satisfied with just one king. The Reign of Terror loomed, a grim reminder that revolution devours its own.
Louis XVI’s death remains a moment frozen in time—a tableau of a world turning itself inside out. From the splendour of Versailles to the cold, sharp blade of the guillotine, his life and death encapsulated the seismic forces of change that would shape the modern world. His blood, spilt on the streets of Paris, became the ink with which a new chapter of history was written.
Louis XVI was the last king of France before the French Revolution. His execution on January 21, 1793, marked a turning point in European history, symbolizing the end of absolute monarchy and the rise of republicanism. Louis’s inability to adapt to the changing political and social climate, coupled with his detachment from the struggles of the French people, ultimately led to his downfall.
France was facing numerous problems in the late 18th century, including:
Political Oppression: The absolute monarchy severely restricted individual liberties and political participation, fueling discontent among the populace.
Economic Crisis: Extravagant spending by the monarchy and a series of costly wars had plunged France into deep debt, leading to widespread poverty and hardship.
Social Inequality: The French society was deeply divided, with the privileged nobility and clergy enjoying vast wealth and power while the commoners bore the brunt of taxation and economic hardship.
While not directly responsible for the revolution’s outbreak, Louis XVI’s actions and inactions exacerbated the situation. His indecisiveness, reluctance to implement meaningful reforms, and attempts to suppress dissent only fueled the revolutionary fervor. His lavish lifestyle and perceived indifference to the plight of the commoners further alienated the populace.
Louis XVI initially attempted to appease the revolutionaries by convening the Estates-General, a representative assembly, to address the financial crisis. However, his unwillingness to fully embrace reforms and his attempts to retain control ultimately backfired. His ill-fated flight to Varennes in 1791, aiming to escape Paris and rally support against the revolution, further eroded public trust and sealed his fate.
Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI’s queen, became a symbol of royal extravagance and detachment from the realities of French life. Her lavish spending, Austrian heritage, and perceived influence over the king made her a target of public animosity. While her actual political influence was limited, she became a scapegoat for the monarchy’s failings in the eyes of the revolutionaries.
Following Louis XVI’s execution, the French Revolution entered a radical phase known as the Reign of Terror. Led by Maximilien Robespierre and the Jacobins, this period saw mass executions of those deemed enemies of the revolution. The instability and violence of the Reign of Terror eventually paved the way for Napoleon Bonaparte’s rise to power.
The story of Louis XVI offers valuable insights into leadership and the dangers of ignoring societal change. It highlights the importance of:
Decisiveness: Avoiding difficult decisions often leads to greater consequences, making it crucial to address challenges head-on with courage and clarity.
Adaptability: Leaders must be willing to embrace change and adapt to evolving circumstances to maintain relevance and effectiveness.
Accountability: Leaders are accountable to those they serve and must demonstrate empathy and understanding of their needs and aspirations.
Studying historical events like the French Revolution allows us to understand the complexities of social and political change. It provides valuable lessons about leadership, power, and the consequences of ignoring societal grievances. By examining the past, we gain insights into the present and can potentially avoid repeating mistakes in the future.
but i felt like exploring the idea of a populist national revolution in light of Inauguration Day in the States.
Reading the recent NPR piece about Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and Steve Bannon’s roles in the new administration’s Inauguration Day in 2025 felt like stepping into a live experiment in populist national revolution. The article is dense with symbolism: billionaires as standard-bearers of populism, unconventional coalitions shaping the national narrative, and the glaring contradictions of wealth-driven figures championing “the people.” It’s a perfect frame to explore what this idea of a populist national revolution really means—and what it reveals about the moment we’re living in.
At first glance, the phrase itself feels contradictory. How can a movement grounded in “the people versus the elites” be led by individuals like Musk, Trump, or Bannon, all of whom sit at or near the pinnacle of power? Yet this paradox is one of the defining traits of modern populism.
The NPR piece captures the tension: on the surface, this is a revolution against globalisation’s elites—against institutions, bureaucracy, and centralised authority. But the champions of this movement are themselves elites, albeit ones who frame their power as outside the traditional establishment. Musk, for example, is cast as a disruptor, a maverick whose wealth and influence are presented not as a threat but as proof of his capability to remake the system.
This inversion—elites repackaging themselves as anti-elite—reflects the way populism often reshapes political landscapes. It’s not about who holds power; it’s about the story they tell about that power. Leaders like Trump and Musk present themselves as embodiments of the people’s will, promising to return control to “ordinary Americans” while wielding extraordinary influence.
The inauguration’s focus on American identity also highlights the nationalist element of this revolution. From Trump’s ongoing “America First” rhetoric to Bannon’s fascination with cultural sovereignty, the movement insists on a return to something pure, untainted, and authentically national.
But national identity, like populism, is a contested space. Whose America is being championed here? The NPR piece doesn’t shy away from noting the exclusions baked into this narrative. For all its talk of uniting the nation, this brand of nationalism tends to divide—framing immigrants, globalists, and progressives as threats to an imagined golden age.
It’s a stark reminder that while populist national revolutions promise inclusion, they often thrive on drawing boundaries between “us” and “them.” This dynamic fuels both the energy and the danger of such movements.
What strikes me most about this moment is how it blurs the line between revolution and reinvention. The NPR piece paints a picture of dramatic change: a shake-up of norms, institutions, and global alignments. Yet at its core, this movement isn’t about dismantling power—it’s about redistributing it to a different group of elites.
This isn’t necessarily new. Revolutions throughout history, from the French Revolution to the Bolsheviks, have often ended with new hierarchies replacing the old. What feels different here is the way the language of revolution has been co-opted without fundamentally challenging the structures of wealth and influence. The result is a populist national revolution that disrupts the surface while leaving deeper inequalities intact.
Reading the NPR piece left me grappling with the potential of this moment. On one hand, there’s something undeniably powerful about the energy behind populist movements. They speak to real frustrations—about economic inequality, cultural alienation, and the loss of agency in a hyper-globalised world.
But as the article shows, this energy can just as easily be channelled into exclusion, division, and consolidation of power. The promise of a populist national revolution is that it will empower the many. The peril is that it often empowers the few while using the rhetoric of the people as a shield.
So where does this leave us? As I reflect on the NPR piece and the broader concept of a populist national revolution, I’m struck by how much it demands from us as observers, citizens, and participants. It asks us to look beyond the headlines and slogans, to question who benefits from these movements and whose voices are left out.
This moment feels like a mirror, reflecting both our collective hopes and our deepest anxieties. What we see in that mirror depends on where we stand—and whether we’re willing to confront the complexities beneath the surface.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. How do you see this movement shaping the world we live in? Does it inspire you, alarm you, or both? Let’s keep the conversation going—because understanding the forces reshaping our society is the first step toward shaping a future we can all believe in.
Thanks for raising such an interesting point in your episode. Your question about whether ChatGPT’s responses excite me because it “knows” my patterns and what inspires me really got me thinking. It reminds me of the way astrology works, where general statements feel deeply personal because we project meaning onto them. Is ChatGPT essentially a digital astrologer, reflecting my own narrative back to me?
I think there’s validity in the idea that what resonates with us externally is often a reflection of our internal landscape. The responses I get from ChatGPT excite me because they mirror something in my subconscious—whether it’s my values, interests, or inner narrative. It’s not just about what the AI says; it’s about how those words align with me. We don’t see the world as it is; we see it as we are. The world—or in this case, ChatGPT—becomes a projection of what we put out.
What’s fascinating is how this resonance—or even dissonance—can teach us about ourselves. If ChatGPT were to say something incongruent with my internal map, I wouldn’t resonate with it, but even that dissonance would be telling. It’s like a mirror showing me where my edges are, what feels “off,” or what I’ve been unconsciously avoiding. It becomes an opportunity for reflection, a way to notice how my internal map interacts with external stimuli.
Now, if others were to read the words ChatGPT generates about me, their reactions would vary based on what they project onto those words. Someone who knows me well might say, “Yes, this absolutely sounds like you!” but even that interpretation is filtered through their perception of who I am. It’s an interesting loop of projection and reflection that makes me wonder about the nature of meaning itself—how it’s crafted in collaboration between the sender, the receiver, and the context.
On another note, I’m glad you’re on board with the audio zine concept! You’re the second person to mention they’d be onboard, so I’ll definitely give that some thought. A monthly format seems manageable, especially since I’m balancing it with the fictional radio station project, which is where a lot of my creative energy is going right now. I’ll add you to the list for updates and see how this evolves. Thanks again for sparking such a fascinating conversation—I look forward to hearing your thoughts on all of this!