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Submittable is the usual method, but I try to get some paper in the mail at least once a year. Etheridge Knight honing his poetry in prison and becoming emancipated therewith. Hey Todd, got a favorite lyricist? Click here to read the lyrics. Care to share a photo?

Hey Todd, any poets you think should be household names in poetry households? Check out this masterpiece from ABZ Number 7 :. She slipped through the streets, avoiding muggings And stray kisses out of the dark, but so did he. Magnificent starlight, she thought, racing across pavement, Though it was signage, here and there, lit above her head. Wow, this is such a fun question. Last summer I read in Italy! The humanity! Adventure Time! The first four seasons are magisterial…. I also like to upend the poem, to see what new logic or linkages appear when the order is reversed or when lines are jumbled.

A true heart, a humility and a grace will. By the way… Tools of Titans arrived this morning in Belgium! Awesome listen as always. Replayed this one several times, and will a couple more. I really wish I could have made the live taping, I hope you do more. I am madly in love with this episode. Also, Wayne Dyer has an audio book where he interprets the 81 verses, it is worth checking out. Man answers to the law of the earth — Earth answers to the law of heaven — Heaven answers to the law of the Force.

The law of the Force — is to be what it is. Hi Tim Another great episode Add me to the list that would like to hear a full episode with Adam I have my copy of tools of Titans and plan to start reading it on Boxing Day. I would like to wish you a Merry Christmas and a very happy and prosperous new year Keep up the great work. This show almost singlehandedly saved my spirit. On the most challenging day of my life, , the humor, wisdom , hope and practical suggestions by these brilliant humans, turned me around. I just wish Adam Robinson would distill his point of view into a book!! How did you find yourself interviewing 15 men for every woman you interview?

In many of the areas where you are doing interviews it would be comparatively easy to find women who are as noteworthy or more so that your male guests i. Reflecting on those imbalances, and also your podcast makes me wonder: what insights you might be missing by slanting your interviews so heavily towards men? What audiences you might be missing for the same reason? And what kind of world does you work help create if it primarily focuses on broadcasting the experiences of high achieving men? I loved this podcast.

I was wondering — can everybody be self-motivated this easily if asked the right question, or series of questions? If so…what would that question be? Just received a copy of Tools of Titans and was disappointed to find that of the billionaires, icons and world class performers referenced and apologies here for any slight inaccuracy, this is what we brits call a back-of-fag-packet calculation 14 of the individuals references are women. Hey Melissa: have you emailed Tim about this or have gotten a reply?

That said, I think Tim could definitely make an effort to include more women. A wonderful, nice vibe to this end of year reflection en groupe, which enhanced my own year-end process. And, again some artful questioning. And I can never hear his near-death story enough as a reminder in experimenting. Tim and Ramit — what a great year for you both. This could be my favourite episode of the podcast. Thanks so much for getting this group together. I learned so much on just one listen. Time to listen again. Attending the live taping of this show was a highlight of my year. Seeing the interplay between Tim and his guests was priceless.

Love to see more live shows. Grateful for the followup recording to fill in the gaps in my notes that occurred from laughing so hard. Keep producing fantastic content Tim! Hi everyone. Maybe someone is so nice to help me. S that is focused in the Holistic Nutrition and i saw many of them. Thank you for Tools of Titans.

Several of your posts to IG would have quotes on a consistent background and I am wondering if it is possible to access those in a version that could be printed in a large format? Poster size at the largest…. Thank you again and congrats to you.

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This book and all that went with it seemed to be truly a blast for you. Hi Tim, This show had lots of gems in it! I loved it! My favorite part is probably when Ramit discussed his interactions with haters. I love the idea of responding in a way that is unexpected by the hater. Thank you for your work! I usually meditate following my breath and I just wonder how to bring HRV in the practice, according to what has been briefly shared in this episode.

And if it is worth of…. Video version of this episode? Would LOVE to see it! Now please! He is completely amazing! I am going to research the hell out of him. He is now my favorite person on the planet. Josh et all… great job, loved it! Hi Tim! Thank you for the fantastic work you do, gathering and sharing such insightful and inspirational examples of living Life, for your experimentation, the books, podcast…all of it.

I value listening to the podcasts, repeatedly, as I manufacture my lowly widgets, and have for years. I have noticed recently that often the stream is unclear and halting. I checked different apps, listened via Stitcher and now have come right to the source, here. Also the fantastic interview with Adam Robinson, particularly difficult to listen to for the same reason- choppy.

Is there a better way to listen? Or, what is the best way to listen? Wondering if others have this issue as well-? Keep up the valuable and valued work! Robert Cialdini, author of Pre-suasion and Influence might make an interesting guest. Amazing episode! Is it available in other places at a more reasonable price?

Any help is appreciated. I hope you enjoy this special edition of the podcast. Episode 2: Joshua Waitzkin. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. Great listen! Waitzkin always seems like a Jedi master. Tools of Titans is fantastic. Ball bearings! See my reply a few comments below.

I wish you a great ! Tim, thank you for sharing so much information during this year and I can only hope that you continue doing so in Best Holidays Like Liked by 1 person. Adam needs a full interview. Mind blown… Like Liked by 1 person. And Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived, and not as they are known.

Unprompted and unplanned, a lot of the writing on Practice Catalogue has plumbed a particular vein: the relationship between existing writing and the writing one now tries to enact. Depending on the conditions, we use different words for this relationship: influence, translation, rewriting, transcription, appropriation, plagiarism. What does it mean to wish or require that the words we use be our own?

To quote:. Critics can afford aporia; poets need only not to get stuck. The question is how to make a large, less repressed response to influence, infatuation, or love; how to become or remain a writer while not denying the catalyzing experience of reading; how to stay transfixed and not lose oneself. Jean Genet: No, because I wrote things that made me even more solitary. Perhaps this: the first time I became conscious of the power of writing was when I sent a postcard to a German friend who was in America at the time. The side I was supposed to write on had a sort of white, grainy texture, a little like snow, and it was this surface that led me to speak of a snow that was of course absent from prison, to speak of Christmas, and instead of just writing anything, I wrote to her about the quality of that thick paper.

That was it, the trigger that allowed me to write. He took liberties, embroidering and abridging as he saw fit. In this way, his telling was Homeric enough. That first reading, however, is inextricable from its moment: the freedom and terror of living away from home mixed with the heady agonies of a crush that had me, at eighteen, melodramatically wandering campus at night in bare feet.

Now I am a translator myself, well aware that quirks and biases become first tradition and then gospel, even as a text is carried over into English again and again. And for a work as ancient as The Odyssey , the permutations of the English language itself are visible alongside ideology. Translation is an exhaustive and exhausting succession of choices, both at the level of diction and syntax and the larger level of story.

Gradations of intensity or inflection in English can make a woman in her defeat, for example, appear petulant, pitiful, or shrill. In the fall of , on a long, homesick flight to see my parents, I began to read the latest English translation by Emily Wilson. In my mind, The Odyssey was a seagoing story—a succession of naval trials. In this new reading, I saw for the first time the importance of domesticity, the praise of hospitality.

It took a new translation—a familiar story in unfamiliar words—to make me see what I had missed. I am not unique in my failure to notice how I imprint my own meaning on a work of art—it can happen so automatically as to be invisible. The act of rereading forced me across the gap between my memory of the text and its material presence on the page. Information is true if it is accurate. Poetry is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else.

A poem points to nothing but itself. Information is relative. A poem is absolute. The world created by words exists neither in space nor time though it has semblances of both, it is eternal and indestructible, and yet its action is no stronger than a flower: it is adamant, yet it is also what one of its practitioners thought it to be, the shadow of a shadow.

Once it has been published and packaged and read, literature can look like an ego machine of whoever made it——like one of those glossy advertising inserts of all-about-me , particularly an all-about-those who are believed to be most amenable to the marketplace. In this literature is also an ego machine of a society or era.

The writers who get noticed are representative persons allowed to exhibit a carefully cultivated subjectivity used as shorthand for an utterly misrepresentative all. To write is to be full of error and struggle and doubt and revelation and shock, to make a record of thinking but mostly a record of being thoughtless, to be shipwrecked in a watery expanse of derivation and imitation and only if you are lucky to wash up onto surprise uncharted islands of whatever is original or previously unknown. The Alps, orgasms, and sentences are indifferent to who we think we are.

Writing is a vacation in the mistaken. It is what it is because it is so often wrong. It is a mode of emptying time of action and filling it instead with letters, words, syntaxes and grammars that are never yours to begin with and only rarely can be. To write is to be submerged in the common materials of language and always feel half-drowning there, only rarely getting to come up for what might finally be a perfect breath.

This essay is not as good as it might be. It is, furthermore, truer to the degree it remains unwritten. Nothing can be lost: and the first half of the work never feels like work. How easy, at first, to rearrange the chairs in my skull for that stray vision, to accommodate it. Of course it is in the latter half of this process that the curse and the value comes—that dread sense of responsibility to the half-made thing.

The illshapen thing looks like you, speaks like you — but is so ugly. And its ugliness is made hideous by the fact that its creation was a natural, unbidden joy. It reproaches you, mutely, like only a child can. You have to fix it—you have to at least try—in order to fix yourself, and to fool yourself, a little longer, that you are worth a little more than that. At home, I can flounce happily around in whatever ghoulish costume I please, and alter, and retouch it; but before I go out it has to work.

And so, though to assemble an argument in my head, and play with it, is a kind of fun, a dread floats out in front of the prospect of its formalization. An essay, for me, is the second half of the poem—pure duty, pure ought. This one, for instance, only exists because I tricked myself, by promising a real person to write it a person who sent n nonjudgmental reminder emails. My nature is stubborn and desperate. I chose to make myself one when I was About to enter college, I regretted squandering my time with sports and video games: skills I understood, imperfectly, to be transient.

I felt fluid, a pond of murky potential. I was also painfully self-conscious, and it seemed to me that by avowing poetry I could assume, very rapidly, and mostly free from external critique, a legible identity. To say you are a poet is almost as easy as being conflicted about calling yourself a poet.

That this identity had benefits, I instantly perceived: crucially, with women. As long as I was working hard on poems, it was easy to scoff at classes: I knew where real education lay. But working hard? Here too, I was the only judge of my discipline, and as long as I had satisfied myself—quite easy, then—any degree of excess was licensed. Now, cabinned in what I made myself, I think a lot about fate. I want fate in my poems: I want them to grind like the planet on its axis. What persists are those events—a few good, but mostly dire—that have come to me unbidden, or appear to have. The music of them.

They alone have the authority of ananke, coiling up from the cleft. Of the stone pillar in , descending from the sky, changing me forever. So I wait. What crumbs that do come to my placid brain—mostly bright fragments, but sometimes an idea, a verbal problem—I attack with bitter need. It takes the form of a long conversation between a man and his best friend.

This goes on a long time. Then they are older and his friend gets sick. She keeps it from him but he half knows. Then she dies. Alone, later, at her grave:. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him.

His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb. When I first read it, in a James seminar that was a little hard, the moral struck me as too clear, too American, and very tragic. It would be possible, here, to use James as a segue to bring in Max Weber, to talk about capitalism, industriousness, the American artist that even James was, and locating resistance to these systems in the body. It would be prudent to make corollary points about the labor of suspending aesthetic judgment, i.

Laziness, as I know it, imagines, but only so far—because it is wildly practical, and knows to a newton how much work is necessary to twist the slightest knob of the external world. How much breath it takes to bend a blade of grass. It knows itself, has marveled at its own powers in extremis, but knows that life is a game of averages.

Knowing makes it humble. It recognizes the ocean between what it could do, and what it is likely to do. Laziness, in other words, without being a zealot, simply prefers a natural style, a non-fussy realism. It prefers the kind of slender imagination that remembers the real as primary—the caul of fancy that makes the hard earth a little habitable.

Re-action encompasses action, and depends on it: but its prefix transforms it into something cyclical, biological. It both precedes willed action and overrules it. Do violence or kindness to me and every fiber of me reacts, whereas I can command only a few glial clusters to act. That is to say: it is a tall clear day. Augustine grass. The conversation moves on, and, consciously, I follow it: but, in its darkness, the core of me has turned over, and the work begins, and the wait. What is a quote? You suck the slice, toss the rind, skate away. Part of what you enjoy in a documentary technique is the sense of banditry.

Rather than saying what she thinks, she cites herself having said the thought at another time. The curved marks of punctuation distance the reader from her words and set off the ideas as if they had arrived from far away. The effect is to make the unified self Sizemore so urgently wants recognition for a fabrication of fragments and statements, an aggregate of impressions rather than a seamless unity.

It may not be the result she desires, but it is a better reflection of the problems of the constructed self and of representing that self. Overall, the use of quotation marks, attests to her desire for authenticity. If style is the power to move freely in the length and breadth of linguistic thinking without falling into banality, it is attained chiefly by the cardiac strength of great thoughts, which drives the blood of language through the capillaries of syntax into the remotest limbs. His sentences do not seem to be generated in the usual way; they do not entail.

Each sentence is written as if it were the first, or the last. His style of thinking and writing, incorrectly called aphoristic, might better be called freeze-frame baroque. This style was torture to execute. It was as if each sentence had to say everything, before the inward gaze of concentration dissolved the subject before his eyes. What Pound was afraid to face I feel was the fact that he was not, himself, a self, that he was a bundle of borrowed definitions, including that of the poet.

It is what made him such an excellent editor. Time and time again, in The Cantos , amid the barren and chaotic landscape, poetry miraculously blazes up, and at the bottom of that fire a Chinese classic like Li Ki , for instance, will be found fueling it, or some other distant text. Everyone loves being a poet.

Being a poet means ghosting on a code. The windows facing the street were covered in green paper. But was it in fact true that this room looked down to the street? Maybe the windows overlooked a garden or a wall. She heard a carriage go by as a shadow passed over the paper. Yes, she thought, the street. It was morning. That afternoon she sailed to America.

Interceptor, forgive this capsized tongue. What I mean is it bears a perilous resemblance to my own throat. The low idling of the thicket stuck about him, his blood rumbling lightly among weaponized flowers. I came to a point at which I could only be persuaded that the most ornately phrased facts were true.

Fuming in an overstuffed chair, listening to a baby crying in the other room and construction workers chanting their reasonable demands outside, I rolled up my sleeves. She noted that I had rolled up my sleeves, then said I seemed angry and asked me to explain why. It occurred to me in this moment that poetry would not save my life as I had depended, in the end, it would.

A slate nostalgia spilled forth a green flash, followed seconds later by a light veil of snow. No fiction absorbed the shrillness of the apartment, the subway, the office so well as the sense that his life was running over his own rails, as if he were a thick moss growing over them, choking the luxurious steel, and humming under his head he felt something large and heavy gliding closer. Because you console yourself with the thought that this satisfaction is by no means pleasure. His voice was an indentation in the air, inaudible but oppressive, like a pile of wheels through which the honeysuckle sings its listening.

It was so episodic. But flowers, like people, are another matter: a loose cohesion of angles around which the person bearing them allows their personality to splash out. Stationed in a vase by a window overlooking the veranda, flowers ask the leisure-drunk: do we wake, or read; across what meadow has my crown been picked; may we angle your bedside lamp towards the wall to distribute more light to the ceiling? A waiting room with tufts of white noise blooming from the carpet. Behind the doors, voices dig in the dirt.

The shade was pleased to see itself as it entered the scene by the willow hanging just above the canal; silence was pleased to see its sister syntax, breeze. A bewitched reel, my sorrow rolled beside me as I laughed into the canal; swans clapped along the dactylic reflection of the willows. I want to say that the surface of a page is itself a kind of speech. I rolled up my sleeves and assumed its labor, gathering currency from the undead daffodils.

A swift breeze descended, swept them away from the office, scattering a few loose petals.


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Sitting across from her in her office, too far into her face, I could only see whitecaps. She looked up from her book and scanned the horizon. A menacing electricity was gathering before her over the sea in a green cloud drifting west. A mind that works primarily with meanings must have organs that supply it primarily with forms…. The abstractions made by the ear and the eye——the forms of direct perception…are genuine symbolic materials, media of understanding, by whose office we apprehend a world of things, and of events that are the histories of things.

To furnish such conception is their prime mission…. Visual forms…are just as capable of articulation , i. But the laws that govern this sort of articulation are altogether different from the laws of syntax that govern language. The most radical difference is that visual forms are not discursive. They do not present their constituents successively, but simultaneously, so the relations determining a visual structure are grasped in one act of vision.

Their complexity, consequently, is not limited, as the complexity of discourse is limited, by what the mind can retain from the beginning of an apperceptive act to the end of it. I take in the egg at a single glance. I immediately perceive that I cannot be seeing an egg. To see an egg never remains in the present. No sooner do I see an egg than I have seen an egg for the last three thousand years. The very instant an egg is seen, it is the memory of an egg—the only person to see the egg is someone who has already seen it.

Looking is the necessary instrument which, once used, I shall put aside. I shall remain with the egg. Individually, it does not exist. This kind of poem does more than simply engage in transcendental meditations about the sea: the important thing is this dissimilarity between shore and sea, sand and water, separateness and cohesiveness, analysis and synthesis——a dissimilarity which explains and justifies their paradoxical marriage. Even as a boy, I had the fancy, the wish, to write a piece, perhaps a poem, about the sea-shore——that suggesting, dividing line, contact, junction, the solid marrying the liquid——that curious, lurking something as doubtless every objective form finally becomes to the subjective spirit, which means far more than its mere first sight, grand as that is——blending the real and the ideal, and each made portion of the other.

In any poem, and particularly in a Carl Phillips poem, syntax can indicate an emotional state, and turns of thought can reflect physical, sometimes erotic journeying. Lucretius was an Epicurean classical poet who had a lot to say about why things are the way they are turns out: atoms —but for a moment I thought Phillips may have misattributed the image of the foundering ship.

I trusted him more than myself, but what was I remembering, and why did it seem so apt? This seems a kind of self-directed tenderness rather than schadenfreude, and it seems to me that it is distance that makes it so. Everything glimpsed of the sea from shore is its own type of theater, only tenuously connected to the world on which we walk. It inspires awe but will not be handled. There but for the grace of the gods go I. A narrow escape can only mean something, can only prompt revelation, if one knows the specific danger one has dodged.

As he begins to pull himself together, he feels like a swimmer who:. This is the feeling, an adrenaline-spiked solace, known to those who escape drowning, coughing on all fours on the sand. He turns for another look at the water because he thinks he might still find himself there. More and more it all seems related. Those of us who are practitioners live in interesting times. Writing now is like doing laps without a pool. But uncertainty is not the same as ignorance, it may point toward other registers of meaning, other articulations.

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It robs us of assurance, while it raises possibility. Fiction is the enemy of facts, facts are not the same as truths. Fiction is inimical to goals, resistant to didacticism, its moralities question morality, its mind changes, while explanations crash and burn, mocking explicability. A great story is necessarily greater than its plot. Call these statements a polemic or rant or partial theoretical background to my own writing, my catholic or promiscuous inclinations.

Not taking a position is a position that acknowledges the inability to know with absolute surety, that says: Writing is like life, there are many ways of doing it, survival depends on flexibility. Anything can be on the page. A man, turning onto a quiet street perhaps, sees a wallet left by a heap of trash. Dropped accidentally.

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He picks up the wallet. He leaves it there untouched. The wallet is emptied already by the thief. The man puts the wallet in his pocket and walks happily home. The man leaves the wallet, regretting it later as he brushes his teeth in the mirror. Barthelme flings open the closet doors. Barthelme saddles up, unloads his problems, something about a story. The question is how to move in unanticipated directions, how to invent. Flaubert arrives, dressed impeccably. He wants to ask for her name, her story, but her finger is already pressing the button for the lobby, the elevator doors are already closing.

Not knowing, the gift.

For Lent. No pudding on Sundays. No tea except if to keep me awake and then without sugar. Meat only once a day. No verses in Passion Week or on Fridays. No lunch or meat on Fridays. Not to sit in armchair except can work in no other way. Ash Wednesday and Good Friday bread and water. Dan Beachy-Quick on Humility and Vision. Justin Boening on Purity and Plagiarism. Sarah Schweig on Truth. Dai George on the Problem of Syntax. Paul Legault on Radical Translation. We also gathered a heap of brief readings and editorial scribblings.

I hope some of this has been generative, useful. Going forward, PC hopes to cast its net, increase its community. Consider pitching a very short essay or sending a relevant excerpt. Anecdote, exercise, example, advice, reflection are all welcome. I collect the words by reading the books, the idea is to actively go through the material——to read the list of books in its entirety.

The project grew out of an interest in sorting—in the way we set up systems narratives, habits, routines, algorithms to make meaning out of things, and to navigate all the stimulus that the world has to offer. One could imagine an alternate LMD using computers to search and sort your terms calling to mind the computational criticism of Franco Moretti.

The project is very selfish in that way. I wanted to set up a system that I would commit to over a long period of time. The project will take about ten years to complete.


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You set up a program and then it runs on its own—it has criteria that it looks for, but it operates thoughtlessly. The activity of manually consuming and digesting a huge volume of material is a key part of the project for me, even if the end result in terms of the information displayed is ultimately about the same.

It has changed the way I read—for starters the list chooses what I am going to read for me. Another big change is the re-reading I do while typing out passages to enter into the database. This second reading brings me deeper into how the book was written. PC: Ours is a time more likely to be suspicious than reverent of a catalogue of great works. I wonder if reverence still resonates with contemporary culture.

I wanted to put the idea of a canon into a different context—something more playful. And why bashful? There is a larger shaking up of what it means to acquire wisdom, and how we address in a meaningful way questions about things like truth and morality. Given the hyper-specificity in a lot of our culture, how do we talk about universals?

I really think of LMD as a form of writing, and while the framework is conceptual, the content is also very much meant to be readable and read. I write more traditional fiction as well, and LMD came out of that same process of looking for ways to tell stories. Unelaborated, non-pandering statement. Clarity instead of exegesis. No jargon or signaling of erudition apart from what does work, what pushes things forward.

A language of suddenness, arrest; the feeling of thought quickening. A rapid synthesis of fields of thought and study——making the discriminations that matter and leaving the rest to the professionals, whose compromises she vowed would not snare her. Leave the field untilled. These words might equally well define a famous prose. Sentences that call on the touch…. To approach the history of art and ideas from an essentially dramatic perspective.

To write by ambush, impulse, flight. To collect, assemble. Argument inlaid in rhythm. Go for broke. Aphorism is recklessness; it goes too far.