Finished reading: The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl 📚For my thoughts see: The Art Of Writing About Yourself.

Also learned that you can archive your posts to github and to the internet archive. Great stuff @manton

Now I need to figure out how to migrate all the old blog posts from all the other blogs here. Many incarnations over the years…

Just set up my custom domain so that it would point to my micro blog instead of an old blog I don’t update anymore. Posts gonna be available under blog.martin-haehnel.de

A favorite book of mine is one that looks back. One that is thickly layered in the complications of the author’s view. I don’t think I knew this or could state this as plainly before this book. For a while I assumed it was weakness to be interested in this somewhat incomplete form - is that even the right word? - that is, autobiographical writing. But I love writing that leaves room for one’s own thoughts. And I therefore loved this book which is a prime example of doing the form justice: The Art Of The Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl.

It sounds like a straight up self-help book than it is. It is much more a beautiful mix of memoir and essay that circles around the topic of leisure and how it relates to writing, describing and living in general. What is great about these kinds of books is their way of heightening and compressing reality in its descriptions without loosing the connection to it. And so nothing is ever just the cause of anything or arranges itself neatly into a narrative ark. We might construe easy cause-and-effect relationships between the defining moments of our lives but at the same time we know - if we take the time to notice - that it is much more complex than that. Nowadays there is nothing more boring than a too neatly arranged story.

While Hampl wrote this book, her husband died from a heart disease. Her longing to see him again, her struggles of not being able to believe - as a person being raised in the Catholic Faith no less - that there could actually be another side, where he would wait for her… I could feel that - as somebody raised devoid of any religion (Post-GDR east Berlin). I can imagine how this - having to realize that the partner you miss is gone for good, this person you spent most of your time with, the one which also happens to be your first reader - must have felt. This entanglement builds a lot of the emotional scaffolding in the book. I think it was pretty effective and lends the book a nice counterweight to Hampls beautifully written investigations of a leisurely life.

I liked how history and especially her engagement with history writing made it possible to look over the author’s shoulder while she discovers new wrinkles in the story of the Ladies of Llangollen - two Irish Women - who sought to live a “life of retirement” in the Welsh countryside in the 18th century - only to become famous for it. Montaigne is an important part of this book, too. He is her patron saint of description, observation and as the inventor of the essay an important corner stone of reflection. He is the poster child of the art of the wasted day. In another part of the book, she visits the almost forgotten but now famous proto-geneticist Gregor Mendel as well. He never managed to pass the exam to become a teacher. So he instead lived the life of a monk.

Monks and Nuns are a big topic of the book. If not literally then figuratively, most of the people that are practicing the art of the wasted day are living a fairly structured life - an interesting paradox. But monastery life is not only structured but also slow. A structure followed slowly lends itself to being contemplative, to taking the time to observe and also describe. This kind of life, behind real or metaphorical walls might be a life lived in solitude (or: alone, but not lonely), is a life in which you are not needed all the time, not interrupted constantly, a life where your input, your action is not demanded all the time, where you can come to rest on the passing within and around you, as Montaigne might have put it.

The descriptions of her historical case studies are interwoven with her own life accounts. It’s all the stuff I love about this form of writing: vignettes, reflections, beautiful descriptions. Like in the end, where she and her husband travel down the Mississippi river in an old wooden cabin boat, seeing her home state from a different angle and therefore very differently than ever before.

The book also includes some well-reasoned advice. I loved her description of an anecdote in which a student of hers - she teaches writing at the University of Minnesota - didn’t know what to write about himself, because he only came from Fridley (one of many the suburbs of Minneapolis):

I stared at him. I didn’t, for a moment, comprehend that this was the dark disclosure, this the occasion of his misery: being from Fridley meant, surely, that he had nothing to say. In effect, had no life.

There it was again—nothin’ had ever happened to him and I was asking him to write about it.

“I have good news for you, Tommy,” I said. “The field’s wide open—nobody has told what it’s like to grow up in Fridley yet. It’s all yours.” (p. 185)

This passage was really eye-opening for me and put a finger on an important insight: Autobiographical writing doesn’t need to be anchored by an exceptional life. Or rather: Any life can be made to be interesting.

While writing this review I was googling around trying to find information about the book and its contents - I had listened to it through my local library - and I am a forgetful person. The book seemed to have gotten middling reviews in the aggregate. So I guess it’s not a book for everyone and who knows if I would’ve liked it as much, if I would’ve read instead of listening to it. Parts of the magic of a book like this lie in the sound - and since Hampl reads this herself we really get an impression of the sound she was aiming for.

For me it was an inspiring listen that made me write a lot more over the last three weeks and rediscover my love for memoirists writing like this.

If you are interested to see if this is for you: There is an excerpt about the Ladies of Llangollen on Longreads. And here is a short clip of Hampl’s performance of the beginning of the book’s chapter entitled “To Go”.

The possibility to edit one’s own posts after the fact on micro.blog, is something I really missed from other social media platforms. Finally I can correct misspellings, weird sentence structures, …

Doesn’t mean I will notice them all. But those I do notice I can finally correct!

After not working for about two weeks, the people putting up the scaffolding around the house continued today (Saturday) in the morning. Again, without any warning whatsoever. This whole thing is really a case study in how not to communicate renos to renters…

Calling family will never not be a trial to me. I’m just bad at keeping people in the loop. Probably because I don’t really want to be kept in the loop myself. Does this make others assume I have more emotional bandwidth to offer than I have?

When I was looking through my DayOne posts - the recent acquisition of the journaling app by automattic made me curious; I had not been using the app in a couple of years - I stumbled upon a journal entry that included a few screenshots of tweets that a quite popular German political Twitterer (maybe 30k followers back then, now around 50k followers) had posted, that berated me fiercely. How stupid I was and how dare I speak up against this person. They called me a baboon that needed to be put into place amongst other things. I think they called me sexist, too. I didn’t have the heart to plunge deeper into the post. As I was simply too shocked. I had completely forgotten about this life altering experience half a decade ago. But here it was. And the remembering began.

What had happened? When I was studying history of science and technology I was not shy to speak up. I was a young man that deemed himself smart and with a talent for research. I also had way too much time on my hands, which made me “dangerous” in class. I read and studied furiously. And what I learned I wanted to apply. That is, nothing went past me in class. Any little uncertainty that came up, I problematized - to the frustration of my professors, I’m sure, as well as my classmates. I wanted to be a researcher, or no, I wanted to be a prodigy. A person with great potential to become an exceptional researcher. I dreamt big. And I wanted my professors to see how smart I was. I had this dream that somebody would take me under their wing, make me behave, by offering a path to a career in research. I wanted to be tamed, I think, so that I could become the beautiful, creative researcher that I thought I ought to be.

In any case, this phase of my life was a messy one and so were the discussions in the seminars. Lots of arguments, lots and lots of monologuing on my part. Oh, my poor classmates, forgive me! But that’s who I was back then and although I look back with shame, I would be lying if I would not point out that this time of my life was one of the most instructive phases of it as well.

I remember neither subject of the course nor the specific book introduction, chapter or article that we were assigned to read for this weeks class. What I do remember is that I disagreed vehemently with the author’s premise that nobody had as of yet really looked into the topic at hand, except herself. That the author was female was incidental to my disagreement. But I never liked this take. To me, history was all about uncovering more and more aspects of the past. And a new take was adding a new shade, a new layer to the beautiful complexities of historiography as it related to the topic at hand. There is no singular fundamental take on history that subsumes all other takes - or at least not for long. History is best, I thought, if it was a humbling exercise, one in which your own strong opinions and values get somewhat relativized. History, to me, was a quest for authenticity, for serious inquiry, that ought not to bend to the political fashions of the day - even if I happen to agree with them. History ought to be historicist, in the German sense, where the understanding of a happening stems from a process of trying to find plausibility in the actions through sympathy for the actors - no matter how vile their behavior would be deemed, probably rightfully so, in our time. In short I was a young man looking for authenticity in a world full of ironic takes. I craved sincerity. “Be real with me”, I thought often, “I want to like you”. “I want to be sure that you like me”, if you say so, too. I was lonely and longed for reliability.

It was well known amongst history of science students back then, that we had a minor celebrity in our midst. This person was a young politician of some clout. An up-and-comer that had gotten a taste of political authority, of respect towards their own person, after being elected to the city’s parliament. They were invited to talk shows and interviewed a few times for TV and radio back then. They carried the aura of demanding respect into our classroom as well. Wearing nice long woolen coats, good fitting suits and expensive looking scarfs, not at all what the rest of us normals wore and especially not me, the wild man in the shabby cloths. They were standing out. They had understood that clothes make the person. At the same time their public persona was one of irony, of trolling for the greater good, or what they perceived as the greater good. They were a postmodern politician. One that always seemed to play both sides of the un/certainty coin: Claiming “Facts first!” but being crowned troll of the year some years earlier.

The actual quarrel around which I have been circulating for this handful of paragraphs is explained quickly: My adversary had read the text different than me - or not differently, but more affirmatively. The claim of a fundamental take did not repel them, quite the opposite. They bought the author’s points about what others had overlooked, maybe they bought the idea of a perfect all-encompassing historical take as well? I wasn’t sure back then, but I was sure that history doesn’t bend to a totalitarian approach. Writing history is a process of picking and choosing, of simplification. So I argued against their notion, vehemently. That the author had a feminist viewpoint - which was so incidental to my points - became the linchpin of the discussion. To this day I am sure of this: Even a struggle so central to modern societal progress as equality can only ever be an aspect of historiography. You may base a whole career on feminist history - and that would be an important pursuit - but nobody would claim everything is said and done when we have told all there is to tell about this struggle. No. No! And again: No!

I would like to claim that I stayed as calm as I am now, writing all this down however many years later, but that would be a lie. We shouted at each other. I didn’t permit this person, or my professor for that matter, to have the last word. I was incapable to give in, to allow this person to lug his intimidating aura around to steamroll me. After all, this was academia! Or its impoverished simulacrum at least. And arguments ought to count more than any accomplishments in other arenas of society here. Finally, the person just left in the middle of the class, infuriated, slamming the door. I was about to make another remark about their bad attitude, but was silenced by my professor: “Martin!” He only shouted this one word. My name. “Martin!” “There it was”, I thought. Finally an acknowledgement. I felt oddly good. I felt put into place. And wasn’t this what I wanted? To be put into place?

A few hours later, still pumped up from the altercation, I learned that my opponent had posted the tweets they did. I don’t think they assumed that I was a Twitter user or would seek ought their timeline - if they cared at all. I found myself in an exceptional situation: I could read what another person that didn’t like me thought about me. They just had put it out there for anyone to read. That included me and their kinda big audience. Some people liked those tweets, others retweeted them. And even though I knew, intellectually, that these tweets weren’t meant for me or were in the end about me, really (they were about this persons anger), I felt deeply hurt. I felt seen, in a bad way. I felt revealed, caught. I felt like I was laughable. The whole village, their village, had it out for me, pointing, be it in anger or amusement about this anti-feminist idiot, who came to town, unbidden, to insult the mayor with his retrograde ideas, the fool, not even able to see how antiprogressive he is. I felt my artifice was visible as such. The political ascriptions didn’t bother me, because they weren’t accurate. But the persona that was described between the lines did. This mess of piled up insecurities that held up the disguise of an eager student was laid bare. There I was, in my most unfavorable interpretation. However, I couldn’t deny the fact that it was a possible interpretation. It had a connection to reality. Yes, I was a self-serious jerk. And I knew it, I realized it, sometimes. And in this moment, I could see it clearly, I wasn’t the only one who was aware. I felt deeply ashamed.

As though a pill as it is swallow to remember all of this, to rethink all of this: I am grateful that I had the strength back then to screenshot those tweets and put them into my journal. I don’t know if I knew it back then, but I preserved a seminal moment in my life. There is no real moral here. And I couldn’t point to this vignette as the cause for things being different from there on out. I carried on a couple of years longer with this prodigy-jerk persona, before it finally clicked that this wasn’t the way. Erosion takes its time. But I will always think back to this moment in my life when thinking about where the beginning of the end of that persona is located. It’s right then and there. I am a better person for it today, prodigy or not.

Construction work throughout the whole pretty short summer sucks. But we make the best of it regardless. My GF rearranged the balcony, our oasis at home so that the plants would get more light and we can sit more comfortably there. 🌱

One thing that will be tricky for me is that I‘m no native English speaker. And although for most things that I might post here, being able to express myself is enough… It is not enough when considering writing in an essayist style as I like to do in German.

Maybe I have to mix posts? Use categories? Or keep it simply simple by sticking to English on this platform? Hm. (A second account would be a costly non-alternative for me, btw.)

They are building a roof on our roof!

I just LOVE that I can just write slightly longer posts like the last one if that fits with what I have to say. It’s still posted right there in the timeline. People can still interact with it and I don’t have to make a thread out of it - which would bring its own set of problems.

What a beautiful day! I had taken a vacation day from work today.

After I woke up to help my GF in the morning by preparing food and coffee for her, I crawled back to bed and slept in.

Took my sweet time, dreamt crazy dreams. Later, I started a new audio book from libby (more on that maybe another time) and started cleaning and stowing away our camping supplies.

In the evening we went out to that bar that is so close to us — they had an open terrace for us to sit on, drink beers and eat. Lazy discussions about our summer plans and how we would approach tomorrow’s day hike.

Finally, a little stroll along the two lakes that are less than two hundred meters from our home.

Mosquito bitten and sore from carrying the heavy backpacks while walking through difficult terrain, but happy nonetheless, we emerged yesterday night from the national park.

We walked from Ristikallio to the Visitor’s Center of Oulanka and stayed over night in the camping area of Taivalköngäs.

The distance wasn’t that long: Maybe 18 km - still, our untrained bodies were and are pretty exhausted nonetheless.

Initially, we had the idea of continuing our hike down south to Juuma which would have added another 35 km tomorrow and on Tuesday, but we wisely decided against it. In our current state of fitness, we can do around 10 km a day, maybe a little more, but this number is really dependent on the terrain. And even a full day of rest in our home here in Kuusamo, we felt, would have not been enough to recuperate. You have to leave something for next time. And we’re looking forward to hike it.

Regardless of that, we had a great time. This part of the national park is just breath taking. Lush forests, amazing rapids and all around amazing things to see, big and small.

We were lucky with the weather, too. It only rained once, in the morning, while we were laying comfortably in our tent, listening to the water dropping on the nylon tarp, mixed with the sounds of nature and the faint rushing of the rapids some two hundred meters down the hill.

For our trip we had prepared a southern German speciality: Spätzle. Spätzle’s are normally a kind of fresh pasta that taste amazing with a heavy helping of Emmentaler cheese, some fresh parsley and roasted onions on top. Since the German supermarket chain Lidl is also present in Finland, we sometimes can get a dried version of this dish, which we did. We pre-boiled the German-style pasta at home, so we would just need to warm them up while out in the field (instead of boiling them for 13 minutes out there). And although they were somewhat heavy in my backpack, they tasted amazing after a long afternoon and evening of hiking.

These kinds of trips make you appreciate your home, when you come back as well. Our comfy couch, the soft bed, a warm shower to soften the muscles. We celebrated by getting pizza on the way back home. What a great Midsummer weekend.

Photos: M.H. & e.virsu

Just read @manton’s old post on the deliberate lack of Hashtags on here. I think the concept of emojiitags is a great idea not least because it’s kind of a more controlled way to tag a post with a certain topic.

This means users have the freedom to tag, but the platform has control over what a tag ca be. Bad actors may not invent new tags or reinvent slightly different tags that denote essentially the same topic only with a slight change of emphasis and all the other tricks of attention generation that free-form tagging lends itself to on social media.

Hashtags and Twitter trends go together.

Emojitags won’t solve this problem, I’m afraid. A limited and controlled topic dictionary doesn’t change that. If trends are not to be made invisible, then there is an incentive to appear in the discovery timeline for the trending tag.

And even if trends are not going to be made to stand out more: Trends are somewhat inevitable. E.g. the hockey tag :ice_hockey: shows what you would expect at the moment: A few posts on the Stanley Cup.

Another problem is that certain forms of content happen to be more successful. Just think of instagram, which is full of cute puppy videos (amongst other things) or tik tok, which has a crazy amount of dancing videos. What I’m trying to say: A platform has a ratcheting effect on content once one (or more) repeatable format(s) is (or are) found and found to be successful.

There is nothing inherently wrong with that. I think this is a somewhat predictable quality of social media platforms, when they grow big enough to sustain the complexities on which those emergent properties are dependent.

So what can platform owners do to mitigate the bad effects of growth?

The answer is probably that growth needs to be slow. And content needs to be actually policed. And discoverability needs to be somewhat limited. And content shouldn’t be sorted by likes or similar.

It seems that micro.blog already does most of these things.

Starting fresh on my work computer because of changed policies around private use and a new monitoring tool that must be installed. Anxious moments. Will everything work? Did I backup everything? Ugh. Wish me luck!

If you want to make me monologue without end, give me a question where framing is important, like: “Are you happy?”

I found myself laughing out loud today. To myself. While nobody was at home. It’s probably hinting at something. I just don’t know yet what.

Uff. The drama around the roof reconstruction continues. They decided to work on Sunday, too. Drilling big hooks into the outer wall to secure the scaffolding. We were never warned about that our weekends would be ruined, too.

So thankful to my partner for calling the guy in charge and negotiating a stop - however she managed to do that. This is the least communicated reconstruction project I had to endure ever.

Hiking was indeed nice. Now a late dinner cooking session to feed us hungry and exhausted nature admirers.

(The era of the Pre-Post-Pandemic means that having guests over becomes possible again. It’s a challenge that I want to use as a chance to improve my hosting abilities.)

If things don‘t come naturally, I immediately want to devise a system to solve the problem. Replace talent with technology.

If you are forgetful, you should write it down, create a reminder maybe put it on your calendar. In the same way, I feel I could counter my shortcomings when hosting somebody, too:

If you are not a natural host maybe devising a guest room (we don’t have the space, but in theory…) and putting aside some resources just for the guests just as a bnb would do would lessen the stress.

I’ll try to observe closely what things make staying over here and being a host enjoyable. Let’s see what of the things we improvised this time, we could account for next time beforehand.

Having a guest (Friend of GF) over. My GF and me both are not natural hosts. We stress cleaned like crazy yesterday. First night of two went well tough. If the weather holds we might visit a short local trail later today.

Also: Just got my first vaccination. Thank goodness we are still allowed to go to Sauna!

Would’ve been good to inform the tenants more than 2 days in advance that the roof will be replaced and that it will take basically the whole summer.