Legibility

Most years, at least one of my New Year’s resolutions is to write more legibly. Sometimes it’s my only resolution.

By legibility I mean literally making the words in my notebook something I can return to and read. I often can’t decipher my own writing, even immediately after. Why is this? Why don’t I write more clearly the things that I presumably mean to preserve?

It’s bad. Here’s a sample. No idea what it’s about, though it’s just a few days old. Something about Django :-)

notebook

I could say the thoughts are so urgent I can’t slow down and risk losing them, but that’s not right at all. I go on for pages like this and worse, sometimes just writing lines to make the thoughts come. What good is writing if it’s unreadable?

No, I know at some deeper level I’m not valuing the writing itself enough, that the sloppiness is a way of being dismissive about what’s in there. (And yet when I go back through and can decipher things, I sometimes find such interesting stuff!)

In a way illegibility in your own writing is a lack of regard for your other selves, for the you who will read this down the road, and maybe do something with it, reshape it, reconsider it.

This lack of regard is contagious, too. Ian-the-sloppy-writer transmits his lack of care via page to Ian-the-reader, who cannot bring himself to understand what was meant, what these garbled scratchings are. Ian-the-guy-from-yesterday-who-was-in-ecstasy-about-something-that-looks-like-care-or-is-it-core? Illegible writing makes the thinking itself less real. The words are like a dream that you forget upon waking.

Legibility is a way of taking yourself seriously. Connecting your different selves and benefiting from them, maybe. Valuing thoughts. Making ideas more substantial. Like a time machine, clearly written words transport you to the place and state of mind in which they were rendered. When you read a printed novel, even the third or fourth time through, you get into the frame of mind the author must have had when he or she wrote it 1. This is in fact what literature is for, this going out of you and going into someone else, some place else, using texts like tools for small acts of self-transcendence.

I wrote this on my laptop to avoid the risk of losing it all somewhere in a Meade notebook and a Uniball, but I’m going to be making a practice of my slow, long hand this year.

Notes:

  1. There’s a contrary view here, I realize: The actual longhand notebooks of Hemingway or Proust or whoever are for many readers way more time-travel-y and evocative than their published, new-paper-smell novels. I guess I’m trying to say that printed words and really legible handwriting can sort of disappear and not get in the way of what is written.

Geoff Dyer’s “Is Jazz Dead?”

Geoff Dyer deserves all the attention he’s gotten as a writer. He gets a top-heavy ton in some quarters: There are academic conferences dedicated to him—conferences that he himself cheekily proposes and then attends in a gentlemanly but “meta” way (“Geoff Dyer: There Should Be an Annual Festival Dedicated to Me”); fan websites, of course; anthologies, dissertations, editorships.

Essays that rhapsodize about his “genre-bending”, “uncategorizability”, and near single-handed “renovation of contemporary nonfiction” are part of a ream of adulatory critical writing. For all that, and despite the very personal and sometimes deeply moving works themselves, he remains a bit of a “writers’ writer”, a bit unknown.

I love him. I think all the hype about his single-handedness is true. For me, the piece “Is Jazz Dead?”, which appears in the collection Otherwise Known as the Human Condition, exemplifies what is best about his writing: The essay is earnest but a little rambling. Informal and conversational in shape but deep in its erudition and obvious love for its subject. Wide and deep, you might say.

Jazz is just one of a series of very wide-ranging subjects of his: An essay on Coletrane’s “My Favorite Things” appears in this same collection, but then so does “Def Leppard and the Anthropology of Supermodernity,” an appreciation of the photographer Enrique Metinides, essays on comics, writers, clothes, the Olympics. But Dyer is a real jazz lover 1. In “Is Jazz Dead?”, he’s not actually worrying about the fate of jazz so much as taking a closer look at the kind of hand-wringing critics do all the time around musical forms: Is jazz a discrete genre of music that can be superannuated by new genres? What about Latin jazz, then, or jazz fusion? World music? Happy-crappy “smooth jazz”? Does jazz come from a particular combination of instruments, like: jazz is a quartet with the melody in a horn, a piano?

For Dyer, jazz obviously isn’t a genre but something more like musical innovation itself. It is a “dynamic” between a musical form and its restless, artistic interpreters—like Lester Young and popular dance music from the 40s. (But like a lot of other examples besides; let’s please not get stuck in Swing or Bebop). “Change is immanent to jazz”, Dyer writes. “[L]ike Woody Allen’s shark it has to keep moving, going forward, otherwise it dies.”

“Jazz as jazz died” before the twentieth century was out, Dyer writes, at which point paeans to Bebop like the movies “‘Round Midnight” and “Bird” quickly “acquired the patina of period pieces or costume dramas”. This kind of commentary about jazz is not new, of course, but Dyer is very good at it. He listens to and loves a lot of different jazz. And contrasts it eloquently with other forms:

The Who can play ‘Won’t Get Fooled Against’ again and again, forever and a day, without undermining the song’s credibility. Every rock song aspires to the status of an anthem. But as soon as a jazz tune becomes anthemic it is no longer jazz—it’s elevator music. (Yes, “A Love Supreme” is played in elevators.)

The knowingness and bathos and humor in passages like this are, for me, delightful. And amazing.

What I also like is that he includes newer musical forms like dance music and electronica in his ecumenical list of forms-where-jazz-lives, describing innovative (genre-bending?) players like Jan Garbarek and Nils Molvaer, remasterings like Bill Laswell’s of Miles Davis (Bill Laswell: Reshaping the music of Miles Davis). For all the openness that jazz musicians profess to have to music, there’s a tendency to exclude electronica. Maybe it’s a hangover from the jazz-fusion cheeze of the seventies. I love electronica—trip hop and downtempo, etc.—and have always thought of that as a separate musical compartment of my brain. But reading about Dyer’s jazz innovators and his “embarrassingly late” embrace of dance and electronic music, I can see new intersections running between, and begin to confront old discriminations I may still have.

Essays like this are rambling, but when you’re as good a writer as Dyer, the different lines come back together (yes, yes, like jazz lines), and seem necessary. And more important they move around like real thought, like step-by-step analysis of one’s own opinions and intuitions, like a mustering of one’s stored evidence (Lester Bowie’s rebuttal to Wynton Marsalis’s slightly ossified, “period piece” conception of jazz). Readers may find some of Dyer’s work too erudite as well, but in my view Dyer has a voice and has found a,…well, a new genre of his own that like a superheavy element can store more erudition than you might have thought you had the ear for, just as his sense of jazz comprises more diversity and good music than you’ve ever heard of.

Notes:

  1. See his book But Beautiful for a totally different, Dyer-esque angle on jazz, this one a series of made-up, music-heavy biographical sketches of some of jazz’s haunted giants, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Bud Powell, others.

Zen at the dentist

Observe how satisfying it is to be an object! How satisfying and how rare. Go to the dentist for a scheduled visit and sit in the complicated, humming, reclining chair. Observe your breath as it eddies around the latex of the hygienist’s gloves, sharp to smell but dusty to taste, as she tells you about a show she’s begun to watch with her daughter right after Idol, something about flash mobs on NBC. They are best friends. For her it’s can’t miss TV. She doesn’t care if you can hear her or if you signal back at all.

You are allowed to just sit quiet and stare out the sliding door at the bird feeder. You don’t need to move or make small talk or make restaurant suggestions. You can’t! Your mouth is pried open and there are two hands in it and at least one metal object.

To disappear into the synecdoche, to be your mouth for a whole building full of smocked and comfortably shod pros. A giant mouth, like Eliot’s pair of scuttling claws on the sea floor. To be at the disposal of the staff, to take the ministrations like a champ.

It reminds you of when you were a little boy, of course, and you want to be good for the staff. You like being that little boy again. But it goes further back, it reminds you of what it’s like to be nothing. Before you were born, before you were a person or anything at all. Your self-hood shed for the duration of your scheduled visit to the dentist. There’s pop music, manic children’s drawings all over the walls. To be still. To be manipulated. To be in such a professional and arranged setting but to have nothing at all life threatening. To be taken care of.

Except it’s not all zen because there’s something terribly erotic about it as well. Not the hygienists and the bulky charges of their breasts or their hands with their manicures and wristwatches, or the dentists themselves, moving more stealthily through the rooms. Nothing like that. Nothing personal or particular. In fact, the opposite, the diffusion of particulars and of people.

Me, I close my eyes when I’m there. Does it make them nervous? Because I’ve been asked more than once, Is everything alright in there? It shows, the limbic charge one gets out of emptiness, out of not being, of being nothing more than the three o’clock.