Postcards, Part 4

I'm learning—I think—how to be a better writer. This project, which I've written about a couple times now but still probably deserves additional explanation, is part of that; so is the fact that I paused SOW's publication schedule last week, focusing instead on a still-unpublishable writing project and various administrative tasks. But I still have a list of three or four dozen folks who have requested postcards from me, and between last Friday and Sunday I found myself whizzing through it. I wrote about etymology, and my daily routine, and a few of the topics I've been reading and thinking about: the history of computing, the development of National Forests and Parks, and the formation of the United States Rubber Corporation. I also took a detour into graphene, which (at least in my mind) ended up meshing nicely with the development of vulcanized rubber.

To re-explain this whole postcards project, briefly: Around Christmas I printed a bunch of actual postcards, based on this 1976 HAER bridge truss poster. The postcards themselves are not for sale; instead, they're effectively a thank-you gift for paying subscribers of SOW, and an interesting writing exercise for me. I have a stack of them on my desk, and every week I put stamps on a dozen or so postcards. I then write notes on the postcards, one or two or five at a time, whenever it strikes my fancy. Sometimes I write about what's in front of me, and sometimes I write about something I'm researching, and sometimes I take inspiration from readers, some of whom have suggested short writing topics ("robots," "the tuba," and "the rise and replacement of bakelite" are all upcoming) when they gave me their mailing address and requested a postcard. Either way, once the postcard is written—in pen and ink and very much in the moment—I snap a photo of it, then address it and put it in the mail. Then, on Sunday night, I go through all of my photos from that week and transcribe each postcard into the newsletter you'll find below.

As a reminder, this issue of SOW is only for paid subscribers, without whose support I'd be hopelessly lost. If you, too, would like a postcard—or if you just want to push me to whiz through another hundred and fifty words, not caring too much how well-polished they are—you can find a signup link at the bottom of this email.

2025-01-23

If I am able to take action in order to achieve some result, I have agency. If I am able to give orders and enforce obedience, I have authority. If I can influence others' behavior, or their emotions, or "the course of events," I have power.

Each of these is alluring, as is self-determination (the ability to control one's own life) and autonomy (freedom of action). But each of these terms manifests itself to me as existing in contrast—er, opposition?—to something that I experience relatively rarely: Forcible external control, which results in some overwhelmingly negative personal results.

This is all a bit obtuse, and lacks important context too. My point, I think, is that each of these terms designates a means to some desired end: Happiness, symbiosis, sustainable prosperity.

2025-01-23

From Murray Morgan's The Last Wilderness:

"On June 29, 1938, Roosevelt signed the bill creating [Olympic National Park] of 680,000 acres. The fine print added that he could enlarge it by proclamation to 892,000 acres after consultation with Forest Service and Park Service officials and with the governor of Washington. Nothing said they had to agree.
In 1940, after consulting with the officials and noting the governor's protests, the president proclaimed an addition of 187,411 acres to the park proper..."

It's remarkable how much authority is given with checks that, in hindsight, prove to be ceremonial. The land that Roosevelt added to ONP is roughly the size of NYC's five boroughs; Morgan notes that it included "billions of board-feet of timber." "The protests over the proclamation were vigorous," he tells us—but it's hard today for me to find much fault in how it was made.