27. It ain't a grind to practice scales
The virtues of rehearsal, experimentation, and following through
Like music, but with mud instead
Every evening, and whenever time allows, I make pottery. I love working at the wheel. I love how it feels. I'm fascinated with this ancient elemental practice-- it taps into something fundamental about being an incarnate human, about artfully leaning into the facts of life. We need vessels for things, and once shaped and brought through the alchemy of fire, they remain that way "forever."
Functional pottery, especially, is profoundly simple. It's not an intellectual exercise. There’s no rush. There's not actually a right or a wrong way to do it. The process is my teacher. The more I do it, the more I get a feel for the process and how it wants to flow based on what I intend to make. Engaging this way serves as a therapeutic practice for the nervous system and psyche, not because it is therapy, but because it provides a return to a healthier natural state of being.
I have stints where I make one piece after another. I'm not trying to perfect the cup or express anything particular with the cups I make. My goal is to put myself into the process for its own sake. Doing so brings life into the moment, and it has the side effect of making me a better potter.
Practicing scales with language
I'm not a musician (more on that later), but I do know that a fundamental part of learning an instrument or warming up is to run through a few scales. Playing a scale isn't about expressing anything more than "these are the notes I'm putting on my pallete to play with."
What's the equivalent of scales for writing? I think it's freewriting-- writing without stopping and seeing where it goes.
Freewriting involves writing before you know what you want to say. The only reason we don't do this all the time is because we're too utilitarian. Every word we use is supposed to click into the correct place and serve a purpose. Language is a tricky medium to be anti-utilitarian because words are also what we use to describe things or speak what we need. So, it's important for there to be a clear switch you can activate that says "Now I'm entering this mode."
Give yourself an arbitrary target, whether a duration ("I'll write for 20 minutes") or a project you want to rough out ("I'm going to figure out what happens in chapter 12").
Do more than you need to
The most impactful beliefs are those we don't question, the ones we inherit unconsciously and pass along without realizing it. These beliefs shape our everyday lives.
I think most of us are far more utilitarian than we like to admit. Playing scales goes against that. Scales aren't really anything. They're not a sellable product. And I think the value of metaphorically playing scales extends well beyond building skill in something. It’s about continued exploration.
The musical ability of a caveman
In college, I became enamored with musical instruments.
I was renting a very large, very rundown house. College towns are a great place to find rundown houses safe enough for a college student to live in. It had three bedrooms, five extra rooms, a full yard, a large kitchen, and a big porch. More space than you could shake a stick at. Far too large of a house to be able to effectively heat during the winter. Nesting squirrels and mice sounds drove me nuts in the early morning. In the summer, I would climb out on the roof and lay in the sun. Nobody ever looks up.
I was fascinated by the concept of visual rhythm, which led me to make a bunch of rudimentary sculptures that explored ways of making sound. I had these instruments all throughout the house. When my friend came over, we recorded long in-character interviews and experimental music. It was experimental because I had no skill.
One day, a guy with real musical ability joined us (he later formed Lord Buffalo). He tried to jam with us, and it was very awkward. For in me, you see, there was simply nothing to work with.
"What key are you playing in?" he might have asked.
"I don't really know how to play an instrument."
But that didn't stop me from making sounds. I played on an old pinball machine, banged different stringed instruments quasi-rhythmically, and walked around the house yelling "Ham and cheese."
This kind of playing scales has more to do with the yoga of stretching into new modes and discovering new parts of ourselves on the Shores of Weird. I didn’t realize at the time how important things like that are. Experimentation is harmless, but it’s not trivial.
What happened to all the stuff that I built and all the recordings? I showed a few sculptures. That was enough to complete the circuit. The experience remained the experience.
“It's all just chemicals”
There’s a lot of talk these days about “dopamine culture” based on the ways things like social media hook into our emotional reward systems and manipulate and disconnect us.
These are big problems. But it’s also important to affirm it’s possible to use these very tools to make real connections and have an impact that goes beyond what’s measurable.
I write to practice scales, and I also write to connect with other people. It's not just an arbitrary 'hit' I get when I get a message or see that someone has signed up. It's touching. That's not just chemicals. It's not just an emotion. Some experiences matter.
Having an audience completes the circuit. Having readers inspires me not because of the dopamine hit but because there’s a real possibility for continued exchange and inspiration. I don’t think the endgame for creativity is to stop playing scales and go public in all cases, but it’s crucial that we follow things as far as we can toward realization. Too many people are sitting on creative potential that could be a tremendous gift to themselves and others.