Category: post

When Less is More is More Than Less : fiftyfootshadows.net

This is all well and good and I enjoy reading through different ideas and opinions but at what point is enough enough. When does minimalism start to become cluttered and excessive in itself.

You are simply not allowed to read any of the rest of this site until you read the link above. Go. Now. See you back here in a few minutes…

Are you back now? Good. Now, stop dinking around on the Internet! Go get something done. Make something. Anything. 

I could show you a pizza and beer joint with better tips, tricks, and lifehacks than anything you can read online, carved into the 150 year old wooden booths, written long before the Internet was a thing. Do you know how they got that way? Well, every day it fills up with people. Some of these people have something to say, especially after a pint or two. Then, they use whatever sharp object at their disposal to say it as quickly and clearly as possible on any available semi-soft surface.

So, why am I here doing this? 

Hmmm… Fair question…

This is my booth at the pizza joint. I come here all the time with something to say. My Mac is nothing more than a overpriced pocket knife for me to scrawl stuff into it. And if I did not have that I would find a way. Because I have something to say. It’s what I do.

Find that thing that you do and do it. If it is, in fact, what you do, no tool will make you and no tool will stop you.

The solution to conquering fear is increasing trust. There is a structural tension between the two.
Outfitted with the same equipment and halfway up a high cliff, the experienced rock climber is in as much danger of falling as one with a fear of heights. Theoretically, they should be equally afraid of falling. When we look down we all see from the same perspective. Yet the climber simply looks ahead for the next step higher while the acrophobe can’t shake the possibility of dying. The difference is their level of trust in the rope, the harness, the belay, and, most importantly, themselves.
I watch my daughter balance on the two inch wide arm of a chair. I watch her traverse a three inch wide retaining wall. All without assistance and perfect balance. Put her on a five inch wide balance beam at circus class and she hesitates and reaches out to the teacher for assistance. I ask her why this is and she says, “The other kids make it wobbly”. She trusts the equipment. She trusts the teachers. She trusts herself. She does not trust the other kids.
We all have obstacles we would like to overcome. To do so we must increase our trust. Focus not on fear but on faith.

Most people just don’t get it. What is the appeal of a nice pen? Why a fountain pen? I mean, let’s be straight here, there are a lot of reasons a cheap stick pen, mistakenly pocketed from from your local bank branch, would be considered superior over just about any fountain pen. You don’t have to fill them (which often gets ink on the hands thus staining them for a day or three). They write, reliably and with no bleed through, on just about any type of paper. You don’t have to worry about losing it or loaning it to one in need. If it runs out of ink or breaks, it is practically free to replace.
Yes, all of this is true. But, will that cheap pen ever become imbibed with your character? Will you form a bond with it that is unique to you? Will you know it’s quirks as well as it knows yours? Will it, because of these things, remain with you for a length of time and to the extent that if ever parted from your grasp it will feel as if losing a limb? Will the nib shape to your style? Will your grasp shape to the barrel? Will such a pen ever become a part of you?
These are the things that drive my passion for beautiful pens. Most specifically, fountain pens. The relationship between a writer, the tool, the ink, the page, and the words, demand intimacy. Connection. Extension. I need to know the nib, the ink, the paper and, perhaps more importantly, it needs to know me. It needs to know my hand such that it slowly becomes it. It needs to know my preferences such that it expects them. It needs to know my quirks such that it accommodates them. In my experience, The more care and quality that goes into the production of such an instrument, the more the pen will give to these things.
The Perdice Bradford is such a pen. It is a hand crafted limited edition and stems from a collaboration between the heads of the Pear Tree Pen Company and the Edison Pen Company.

The barrel is made from an extraordinarily scarce acrylic seen before only in the Sheaffer Balance II. The model provided to me for review is an intense and rich tortoise shell bursting with hints of sunlight gold. The nib, made of 18K Gold, is nothing short of a work of artistry. It is one of the smoothest I have ever experienced fresh out of the box. It can be ordered in a choice of fine, medium or broad-tip (I tried the fine, which was perfect lovely). In addition, custom ground extra fine or italic nibs can be special ordered for slightly more.
For my testing purposes, I used Pelikan 4001 black ink. Not the most interesting choice but one that I knew would provide me a consistent flow for ease of comparison to other pens I’ve tried or own. The pen certainly took well to it and laid down a consistent line that, due to a very slight flex in the nib, was not devoid of personality. Exactly what one would want from a pen of such quality and something that would grow with the writer over time.
Every single detail of this pen reveals the caliber of the craft, both that of the maker and that of the writer. The price, starting at $325.00, is reasonable considering this fact. This is a pen that, with the proper care, will outlast you and give your descendants, should they chose to use it, as many hours of writing pleasure as it provided you.
The only drawback in the experience is that I must send this one back. It is number seven out of a total of ten that will be made. My only hope is that it will be appreciated as much by the buyer as it has been by me during my time with it. Perhaps, that buyer will read this review one day and drop me a card written with this fine pen. Thus, binding us in greeting and familiarity as only a good pen can.

So, I was sitting around my local co-working space today, when someone asked me what I thought about offsite backup services and what I would recommend. Without missing a beat, I said, “The one I offer.” I then proceeded to give the elevator pitch and explained the benefits.

“Great!”, the other person exclaimed. Then, a few minutes later he stated his desire to sign up and asked when we could set up a time.

“You have your laptop sitting there so how about right now?”, I asked.

To his amazement, and appreciation, I took my wallet out of my pocket, removed the tiny USB 8GB drive I keep within. I plugged it in, launched the installer for the backup client software, entered the settings, and began the backup.

“So, how will I pay you? Do you need me to send you a check? PayPal?”, he asked.

“I can take a credit card right now, on the spot, if you prefer.”, which he agreed to.

I took out my Square reader, plugged it into my iPhone, swiped the card, charged it, and sent him the receipt via email. The entire process from decision to completion took about 5 minutes.

The future is now.

Here is another portion of, The Saga of The Rhone’s – A letter written by my Great Uncle to my Great Grandfather:

Our grandmother Hetty was later married and had seven children, Lizzie, Emma, Jim, Dave, Will, Erastus, and one more… I am sure you know all about Erastus so I say nothing about him.

What?!? Wait one minute here! All those names, normal for the time, and then… Erastus? I don’t care about the other kids half as much as I care about him just because of his name alone. You know he was the most interesting of all because, well, look at that last line. You know at one time Erastus must have been known all over the family as a real character. Good? Bad? Who cares? All I know is that, because my Great Grandfather and his Brother knew “all about Erastus”, we now don’t.
Some vague memories remain. My Mother faintly remembers an “Uncle Rasty” growing up when she would visit with her Father’s family. She does not remember much. Mainly that he lived in a shed in the back, not in the main house. That there may have been some sort of falling out with some of the other family members…
E-friggin-rastus!
This is an important lesson about the nature of storytelling and history. The stuff everyone knows is often the stuff forgotten with time. Nobody bothers to write it or repeat it because “everyone” knows it, at least at the time. The problem here should be obvious. As long as the knowledge is “known” and not captured and recorded, it will eventually be lost.
This is true of most of the things we keep in our heads really. No matter how good your memory, or deep your knowledge, all of it will go when you do. Write it down. Especially the stuff everybody knows.

Here is how my family came to bear the last name Rhone. This is from a letter written by my Great Uncle to my Great Grandfather:

Your |zestb|referrer|nasye
grandfather was named Abernathy. He was an Irishman who came for Ireland to North Carolina and was a farmer and whiskey distiller… Our grandmother lived in the same place and was owned by a family named Rhone. Her name was Hetty. Since he did not own Hetty neither did he own her son, but made many unsuccessful efforts to buy the child from the Rhones… Meanwhile the Rhones got in a bad way and your grandmother’s family was sold to a family named Stowe. As was not always the case the family was not separated… Shortly after Freedom immigration agents came to the settlements and told great stories about the great State of Texas, most of it was fantastic and untrue, but they were greatly moved and decided to move to Texas, taking a steamboat to Galveston and finally settling near Brenham… Although they had come to Texas as Stowes, they decided at registration time to change back to the name for their master Rhone was good to them. while Stowe was very mean. So that is why we bear the name Rhone instead of Stowe or Abernathy.

My family chose the name Rhone. A choice driven in part not only by the past they wished to remember but also the future they wished to have going forward. Within that name were lessons about right and wrong, human suffering and dignity, and how we should treat those under our care. It defined them. It told the story they wished to tell to others about them.
For centuries, the names we have chosen have said much about who we are, what we do, what we believe, and how we wish to be remembered.
Johnson (John’s son). Schumacher (from “schuhmacher” German for Shoe Repair/Maker). Smith (Someone who crafts, forges, or makes).
All of these were chosen. All of these had something to say about the past, present, and future. All of these helped to shape the legacy of the families that chose them.
In the same way, today we also choose names for ourselves that, while not family names, still say as much about us as they have for centuries before us.
Mother. Democrat. Student. Thinker. Writer.
And, in choosing these names, they define us. They define our legacy. How we wished to be thought of in the present and remembered in the future. They tell others our story.
Here is how I came to bear the name Rhone:
I was born Patrick Davis. When my Mother became pregnant with me she got married to a man, who was not my father, with the last name Davis. He was a mean man who abused my mother. She divorced him before I was born. For many complicated reasons, the name remained. I was born a Davis.
My real father’s last name is Mason. I have known him as my father since I was three. We had occasional interaction as I was growing up. I was always drawn to him. I looked up to him. Despite many circumstances that kept us apart while I was growing up he was always my dad. We remain quite close today.
When I became a young man, I decided to choose a name. I did not wish to be named Davis as I had no connection or knowledge of the man (nor he of me). I considered Mason for a time. In discussions with both he and my mother over the years I came to feel, if time were reversed and given the opportunity, they would have never married. Therefore, I chose the story I wanted to tell about me.
I chose Rhone.

In rock climbing, there is a technique called belaying. It is a system often used between two people, the climber and the belayer, and is used to keep the one climbing from falling very far should they loose their grip. As one would imagine, any system involving such a level of trust also needs to be supported by clear communication. When I was a young man, I did a fair amount of climbing, always using this system.
One day, I was on belay at the top of the rock face. Top belay is a bit atypical but not unheard of. It’s a bit more risky because the one belaying can’t really see the one who is climbing. Therefore, the one belaying must work off of the tension of the rope and the standard call-and-response communication system is even more important. And thus it started.
“On Belay!” I heard from far below. It was the climber, letting me know that he had the rope secured and was awaiting my response.
Now, a side bit about this particular climber. He had worked very hard to get here. He had battled a life long fear of heights. If asked, just a couple of weeks prior, if he could ever see himself climbing a boulder, let alone a six story rock face, he would have shuddered in fear at the thought alone. That said, he started with a boulder and overcame his fear with each new challenge, each one a little bit higher than before. I was incredibly proud of him. Now he stood here, having placed his trust in me, and in the system, ready to tackle his biggest challenge yet.
“Belay On!” I called out to him. In technical terms it means that I have checked all of the equipment on my end and my setup and am personally prepared and ready to protect the climber in case of a slip or fall. To lock off the rope. In simpler terms, I’ve got his back. I’m ready.
Now, at this point, the one who is belaying expects to hear “Climbing!”. And only then expects to give the reply, “Climb On!”. Thus giving permission for the climb to begin. This is the system. These are the rules. It is the only way.
I never heard it. I never heard “Climbing!”
Therefore, I know damn well I never said “Climb On!”
Yet, at some point, the climber decided to start the climb.
Perhaps he said “Climbing!” and, due to the distance, or the echo of the canyon, or the voices of fear and uncertainty already in his head, he thought he heard me give the O.K. Whatever the reason, here I was at the top of the rock. Waiting. Not feeling tension in the rope. Not pulling the slack. Not really expecting to.
After what was likely a few minutes but seemed like forever, I heard a scream and suddenly the rope went tight. I could almost feel what had happened before I actually knew for sure. And, as I went off belay and peered over the ledge to the bottom, there was the climber, lying on his back at the bottom of the cliff, still attached to the rope surrounded and being attended to by the others we were there climbing with.
What happened? Why was he climbing? Why did those below allow him to climb? There was a system! A trust! I never said climb on!
These were all things running through my mind as I set up a repel, threw it over the side, and made my way down the face. As I reached bottom, he was beginning to sit up. He had not fallen that far. Ten feet. Fifteen at most. So I was told. He was shaken and sore but nothing seemed broken, on the outside at least.
The inside was another matter. The courage he had built until that point was shaken and his confidence was broken. He never climbed again. Not even a boulder. And, it was a long time before I could feel comfortable belaying. And even when I did I was extra loud and clear and specifically requested others to be the same no matter their climbing experience. In a strange way we both fell off that rock that day. If I was ever going to get back up there again, I was going to make damn sure I was not alone in my understanding of what was expected.
When working the edges of life and the obstacles we all must climb, one needs at least one partner (Ideally, you need several) and a system built on clear communication and trust. It must be understood clearly by everyone involved. Regular status checks are mandatory. Because, ultimately, you need those who are going to have your back and ensure they will keep you from falling. You also need those who will help you with the communication needed to keep you safe. Done differently and you risk pulling those tasked down with you when you fall. Done well and you all tackle the edge together.

OK, so I have finally had a chance to sit down and catch up on all of the big iPad 2 news of today and I do have to say that I am typically impressed. I use that phrasing because this is exactly the kind of second revision update one would expect from Apple in this area. They have never been a company that rests on their laurels or suffered even the hint of competition1 in a market they pretty much defined.

They improved everything. It’s thinner (Thinner than an iPhone 4!), faster (Dual Core!), has front and rear cameras (Facetime!). Even the new cover, not to be mistaken for a case, is engineered and imagineered to the nth degree. What’s not to love? If you were a hold out on the original iPad because you knew that Apple was likely already making something even better, well, wait no longer this is the machine you want.

That said, what about those of us who have the first generation iPad? You know, the one I’m writing this on right now? Is this so significant an upgrade that it has somehow magically rendered ours near useless in comparison?

I think not. I think if you were using and loving your iPad before today’s news, you can and should do so after it. It is still very much the magical and revolutionary 2 device it was when you woke up this morning. You know, when you launched the iPod app, fired up the latest episode of Enough, streamed it to your Airplay speakers, swiped through the New York Times, while you sipped free-trade coffee, and pondered what a blessed and wonderful life you had. A life filled with things you could only dream about as a kid and still foreign to 95% of the world’s population. A life free from the guilt your mother tried to instill when she told you to eat all of your vegetables because there were starving children in Asia and you should be grateful to have any food at all. Instead, you get to enjoy this still magical device and just tuck away in hidden places the possibility that those vegetable starved kids likely grew up to work in the factory that made said magic for you.

So yes, the iPad 2 is great if you need one. If you have an iPad today, the one you have is best.

Also, eat your vegetables.

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1. This word should be read as if in air quotes because that is how it was meant. And, no, Android is still not there and likely never could be in my opinion. ↩
2. Air quotes again. ↩

What if you were to erase your digital past? All of it. Start fresh. Today.

All of those photos of past loves. All those documents of work from two jobs ago. All of that stuff you have been clinging on to that has no real impact or relevance today. The stuff you will likely never need again. What if you were to make the conscious choice to erase it in order to move yourself faster forward? Not because you need the space. Not so you can run around calling yourself “minimalist”. What if your reason for doing it was no more than being more focused on the present and more prepared for the future. A recent essay from Ev Bogue has had me meditating on just that.

The fact is, that technology is catching up in such a way that increasingly it will hold onto the past and those memories for us. Our Second Self 1, as Ev has coined it, will contain our memories so we don’t have to. We will be able to search for and access all of this stuff if we ever need it again. It will be out there. Especially if it matters. Do we really need it in the same physical and cognitive space as the things that are important and relevant today?

For instance, if I were to delete this site tomorrow, you could still find a lot of the content. Especially the important stuff. Google caches it. The Wayback Machine remembers it exactly as it was. Perhaps, even more fundamentally, the really important stuff has been retweeted, reblogged, taken to heart and put into practice, and all but lives on far beyond the words in this container. Would it be the end of the world if I erased it and started over?

Another example is Dropbox and CrashPlan. I put everything I can now, including all of my documents, into Dropbox. CrashPlan does incremental backups of my machine every 15 minutes. If I were to erase something from my system, it would not truly be gone. Both have the ability to restore deleted content. If I really needed something back I could find it and retrieve it. The technology has become my long term digital memory – keeping multiple copies and versions so that I can focus on the things that are important and relevant now.

Then there are the other things I’m letting my second self build and remember as I go. Any link I share on Twitter is remembered by my Pinboard. As is every item I read in Instapaper. Not to mention the many, many, things I send there manually. I don’t need to save that interesting link I read that may or may not be important to find later. I don’t need to keep it. If I read it I will be able to find it. My second self will remember. My primary self can therefore have more cognitive space and technological ability to work with what I need today.

My mind also turns to those who recently lost all of their email due to a GMail snafu. They opened up their email today and poof all of it is gone. On one level, I think about the consequence of trusting and outsourcing such memory and data to the technology, the cloud, the second self. The loss of control. The loss of things that really do matter today. On another level, I envy it. How nice might it be to start over and send out a message to all of my contacts letting them know what happened and to send their message again if it was important.

It causes me to challenge myself about the nature of control. Am I controlling the data? Is the data controlling me? Do we really ever have control over it in the first place? Is the loss of control frightening or, in some ways, cathartic? Does the true control and empowerment come from being able to take it or leave it? To erase?

Just a few of the things I’ve been meditating on lately and hopefully will spur some further thought for you as well.

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1. The ideas of Second Self and Augmented Humanity I find to be very interesting and important ones and Ev is a thought leader in this area. If you want to get a glimpse of where humanity is headed in the very present future, this is a must read. ↩

We live in the future. You know that, right? To show you the proof, I’m going to start regularly posting examples starting with this one:

I started out listening to the new Radiohead album this morning in the shower on my iPhone plugged into the auxiliary jack of my Tivoli radio which lives on the bathroom shelf.

I got out, toweled off, unplugged the iPhone from the Tivoli, stuck in my headphones, and continued to listen as I made my way upstairs. Once upstairs I removed the headphones and, using AirPlay, continued broadcasting right where I left off to the speakers connected to my Airport Express.

I got dressed, checked my email (on the iPhone), packed up my brief bag, then headed downstairs but only after switching the playing to the speakers there. Then, as I left the house, I plugged the iPhone into my car adapter and continued listening on my drive.

All of this using a music player that is also an advanced communications device and computer that gives me access to more information than I could ever possibly want to know and fits in my pocket.

The future is now.