Jordan Lee (dot) Life

I really enjoyed this insightful and far out conversation on the Hermitix podcast with the media theory scholar Bogna Konior, I’ll definitely be picking up her book. She pulls from sci-fi, theology, the study of non-human intelligence, and the roles of deception to weave together a thought experiment where the most intelligent thing to do as a human may be to stop communicating in open internet spaces (and yes I see the irony of posting this in an open internet space). I was especially compelled by her ideas about monks and prayer and if that type of reverent silence is possible within networked digital spaces.

Last week I wrote about the “creativity portal”, an open antenna-like state where ideas and connections flow easily. Many artists describe it as feeling like the ideas are coming from outside their conscious self, either from a higher power or their own secret depths. It is a deeply fulfilling yet furtive, unpredictable state.

With this on the mind, I saw the Columbian tragicomedy Un Poeta and was shown two very different processes of creativity. The main character, Oscar, is a middle aged poet who hasn’t produced work for a decade so he fills the void through alcohol, delusions, and thinking everyone else is a sell out. The viewer clearly sees the portrait of a spiralling artist disconnected from their creativity and coping in ways that take them even further from what fulfils them.

Oscar eventually meets Yurlady, a 15 year old high school student living in the slums who has immense natural talent as a poet. Although she is outwardly understated and shy, her notebook is filled with poems that are simple yet deep, interfacing with the material difficulties of her life but also finding beauty and transcendence within them.

As a side note, It is interesting how most children are naturally creative and seem to lose that ability as they age. I wonder why that is?

Eventually Oscar takes on Yurlady as a protege and she sees, in full tragicomedy fashion, the dysfunction of how arts funding works, the deeply imbedded sexism and classism of the art world, the macho clashing of egos- none of which has anything to do with the poetry itself. It made me reflect of my own long journey of relearning how to naively enjoy making music after seeing the structures of the music industry up close.

As a movie, I thought it did a great job asking the biting questions but I do wish it was a little less bitter towards poetry itself. I would have loved to hear more of Yurlady’s poems, or seen a little of the positive, transformative impact that making art can have on a person’s psyche. There are little hints of this in the film’s closing chapter but perhaps Un Poeta works best a cautionary tale.

One of my resolutions this year was to “keep the portal open”, a phrase borrowed from my friend and sometimes musical collaborator Matt Bachmann. I think it is a more poetic way of talking about the open, perceptive, creative state where ideas and connections come easily and the world is endlessly fascinating. Like many others who have described this, I feel my ego shrink and instead get to be an antenna picking up the infinite signals of the world and mixing them together within my psychic depths. In my experience, this portal is like a stray cat who must be coaxed, slowly fed and nurtured before it becomes a reliable presence.

Even though writing, teaching, and performing music is a big part of my life, I still regularly lose access to this portal. Usually this loss starts from a combination of work and family stress, travel, some sort of light addiction to junk media, a brutal news cycle, and various misguided fears about my music not being good enough that spiral into avoidance. When I am creatively connected it is one of my favorite feelings in the world yet it can feel like swimming against the current as our society is so wired for easy, shallow hits of pleasure in exchange for perpetually fractured attention.

It can become a vicious cycle. When I’m unable to write inspired music, I am more likely to become depressed and seek distractions which make it even harder to attempt to write again. When I was younger I thought inspiration was random or something to be found in faraway places or extraordinary situations. More recently, I’ve been able to see that it doesn’t need to be boom and bust, in fact it is much better if it isn’t. The Artist’s Way teaches (and I agree!) that the tortured artist myth is toxic and untrue but I do think that many other sensitive and creative people are stuck in this same spiral which brings about a lot of pain.

This year I decided to approach this resolution with good old Buddhist “compassionate curiosity” towards self. Soon questions popped up like what happens if I don’t look at my phone for the first hour of the morning? Should I go straight to the piano? Should I write with a notebook, computer, or both? Should I try to write when I feel totally uninspired? Should I set a timer for 20 minutes? Should I make voice memos while I walk? Should Wednesday be a no screen day? How to make practicing not feel like a chore but also still a habit? Do I buy a special scented candle and light it when I’m being creative to “enchant” the space? Should I take more notes or does that take me out of the moment? What if I meditate before each writing session? What if I only have one cup of coffee a day so I don’t get jittery and anxious? What if I keep a notebook next to my bed to catch middle of the night dreamy thoughts? What types of media fill my mind with imagery and ideas and which ones are more numbing? What does actual rest look and feel like? What do other people have to say about these subjects? Why do I overthink everything!!!???

Yet something interesting has come out of this barrage of noticing and questioning. There hasn’t been definitive answers on “how to be” but the mindfulness of the portal itself has made it feel more consistent than ever. Even on a tiring difficult day where I wasn’t able to get into a creative state I can compassionately notice instead of starting a cycle of depression and avoidance. Last time this happened I resolved to at least look at my lyric or song drafts each day even if it was for five minutes for the sake of my feral portal animal mixed metaphor thing.

Yesterday, I put this to the test and had a small breakthrough. Me and L had scheduled a fun but totally packed Friday where I knew I wouldn’t get any studio time. On the short train ride I checked in on some lyric drafts on my phone and had a huge burst of inspiration that tied a song together and clarified some ideas for my whole album. I started to feel the heaviness of my album-in-progress give way to a lightness where the writing was built into the foundations of my life, not as a burden, deadline, or chore but as a process that expands the very way I see the world.

(Art is untitled by Ruth Asawa)

I just finished the first of seven books about an antique bookseller stuck in a single repeating day and her attempts to understand and escape her absurd situation. The author first crossed my radar from a hilarious New York Times profile where the reporter visited her isolated house in Denmark and mentioned a box labeled “Things” and another labeled “And Some Other Things”. Relatable.

I found myself needing to be in the right mood to absorb the deluge of mundane details of hundreds of the same day yet eventually I was fully pulled in and feeling the mood swings of the protagonist. Or rather the slow transition of how she looked at herself and the untethering from rhythms we take for granted. I’ll probably take a little break and pick up the next book soon. It also reminded me how much I’d like to read Proust’s In Search Of Lost Time to continue this theme of temporality, mundanity, and profundity.

A small pleasure among the many indignities of freelancing in NYC is using my movie pass to see a free matinee movie in the middle of the week. Most recently I saw Sound of Falling, the loosely intertwined and century-spanning story of a German farmhouse and the generations of girls who grew up there.

The movie also functions as a haunting, with the viewer not able to initially discern exactly how the disjointed timeline relates to itself or whether there are supernatural elements or simply historical reverberations. A running theme is the casual violence of the male gaze which leads to an atmosphere of dread not just permeating the dank 1900’s cellars but also sunny open fields.

In the 149 minute runtime director Mascha Schilinski develops vivid sensual languages. Eschewing a soundtrack or score, Falling still uses sound quite effectively by pulling it away to develop tension then homing in on a single element like a pig eating or fly buzzing. Through the lighting we see how drastically society has changed in this century. The farmhouse is introduced as a candlelit semi-feudal agricultural dwelling for a family and servants at the onset of World War One, then followed all the way to the present where a Berlin family seems to have picked it out as a country fixer-upper project.

I left the theater thinking this movie was long, bleak, and really well done and tried to get my frayed nerves to feel normal again. But waking up this morning I could not stop thinking about it. I think my dreaming brain had been mulling it over all night, finding more connections, thinking about how the sense of touch was portrayed, noticing the brilliant rhythm of the sequencing of scenes.

The foregrounding of the German farmhouse and my reaction to this movie itself reminded me of the book The Poetics of Space where French philosopher Gaston Bachelard uses the analogy of rooms of a house for how we store memory and impression in the subconscious. He makes an argument that certain art, like poetry, can bypass the language-based brain, enter the house of the subconscious, affect the reader, and then re-emerge back out into the consciousness in a translated yet diminished state.

Although it was a difficult watch I’m ultimately glad to have allowed my inner house to be haunted by Sound of Falling.

I haven’t had a chance to go over Luminate’s data from how music was listened to and monetized in 2025 but I always appreciate Damon Krukowski’s analysis. Below is a handy graph which shows that only tracks in the top two sections (white and light blue) collect ANY royalties from Spotify. That means 88% of the tracks on Spotify are listened to less than 1000 times a year and are therefore exempted from payouts. This money is then reallocated to those above the 1000 play threshold in proportion to their percentage of total plays.

It boggles my mind that 250 million new tracks were uploaded last year. As a musician, I am actually part of the lucky tier that makes a small portion of my income from this system. But because it is “pro rata” (meaning that the total amount of money set aside for royalties is split in proportion to total listens on the platform) I am in direct competition with any new track on the platform since it dilutes the pro rata pool.

All of this makes me think about how when I started this band 18 years ago there was a separate “indie” ecosystem, often local or regional, with its own publications, venues, record stores, college radio stations. Part of being a non mainstream band was finding these networks and contributing as a performer and as a participant. Maybe I’m just old but I think there is something existential about the main place for listening to music pitting everyone against each other for a sliver of the royalty pie. For most of my life I didn’t have any reason to know or care about the billboard charts yet now, in a strange way, I feel part of that system. Not to mention Universal Music Group, the largest label in the world, has bought the company that publishes my music so now I have truly and unwittingly joined the major label system.

I know that exciting indie ecosystems still exist and I’m grateful for them but I think the main difference is that they don’t exist out of necessity anymore where in the past they were actually needed if you wanted to find literally anything outside of the mainstream. That being said, if you’re doing the good work of making/participating in different systems than the easy/default ones I appreciate you!

I’m glad I finally got around to reading Annie Dillard, starting with a collection of her narrative essays. I love the way she often starts with small details, weaving them together until they take on new meaning. Below is a particularly rich paragraph from the essay “Paganism”.

“The room where I live is plain as a skull, a firm setting for windows. A nun lives in the fires of the spirit, a thinker lives in the bright wick of the mind, an artist lives jammed in the pool of materials. But this room is a skull, a fire tower, wooden, and empty. Of itself it is nothing, but the view, as they say, is good.”