Pizza, Arranging Nothing, and a Nighttime Dance

Did they come for my lecture or the pizza? I may never know that answer (hopefully both), but last week I gave a lunchtime talk about my work to an interdisciplinary student innovation group on our campus. The event was enjoyable, and I’m grateful for the invitation. I shared a few of my projects in the context of a 15-year trajectory with a lean toward digital technology… and realized I rarely have the opportunity to give such a talk on my campus (and to my delight, three of my design students were in the group). Classroom lectures are razor-focused on the course itself, and my research often sits at the far edges of that content. As I revisited some of these projects, I realized I miss working with codes and tech tools and ASCII generators and MIDI bits and just messing about with these things. Between bites of pizza and good conversation, the event has nudged me toward embracing some of these things again… how that will happen is yet to be determined.

She suggested we all bring books that we like, in terms of the approach and way they’re put together. I can only understand this as an appreciation of style; not the writing style per se, but the way the book is arranged. My mind immediately went to How To Do Nothing by Jenny Odell. I read it in 2020 (it seemed fitting) and still have the many notes I jotted down while reading it. Obviously, I was sold on the subject matter itself (I mean, how does one... not do anything?) but how Odell approaches it. Six chapters, each manifesting as a facet of doing nothing, and at the same time each expands the singular idea of ‘nothing.’ And so, this one for sure. This is one of the books I chose.

I took Angus out for his bedtime potty break after dark. As expected, across the street, we saw a furry flash of black and white: a skunk, no doubt feasting on all the spring grubs. Steering clear, we made our quick journey around the corner and back. By this time, the skunk was in front of our house, blocking the way to the door. We waited across the street in our neighbor’s driveway… and watched as the skunk kept trying to walk toward us before my flashlight made it hesitate. We waited. Angus lay down and yawned. I whispered, “good boy!” and we waited a bit more. Eventually, I decided we might cross into the far end of our property, and maybe take a different path inside. To my utter amazement, as we did so, the skunk also scurried to the very place we had been waiting, and proceeded to dine there. Unknown to me (and perhaps all of us) we had just done a peculiar dance… a simple changing of places, avoiding any contact but keeping a very close eye on one another.

This post is public so feel free to share it.