Recently I’ve been thinking about a couple of different tech-related things that sort of overlap. One is the (emerging) shape of the new social web; the other is a pull I’m feeling to try and lessen reliance on American companies. 

I’ve been interested in / concerned by what became of social media for some time.¹ Since the sundering of Twitter in 2022, I’ve kept an eye on the various alternatives, with particular interest in Mastodon and Bluesky. Actually, to be more accurate, my interest has been in the protocols behind those platforms: ActivityPub and AT Protocol respectively. Both have their strengths, but in recent years I’ve become increasingly bullish on the prospect of an open social web based in AT Protocol (or atproto). 

Perhaps most important, its basis in individual ‘Personal Data Servers’ (PDSs), as a user-empowerment mechanism that also solves for centralisation, is very exciting. Secondarily, the use of domains as public identifiers is super neat. At the technical level, my account on atproto has the identifier did:plc:wpjckptarurm2hg4456ecee4, but I’m free to associate that with a URL, and I’ve done so: adamwood.online — far more human-readable. That URL now becomes my username across any application built on atproto. That’s particularly exciting when you look at the variety of experiences already being stood up, collectively forming what has come to be known as ‘the Atmosphere’. 

A quick poke around an index of services already built on atproto reveals solutions for microblogging, photo sharing, live-streaming, personal pages, long-form writing, media logging and also interesting projects in spaces like professional identity, web annotation and curation. It’s an exciting and rapidly-evolving ecosystem, all using a shared user identity and true user-ownership of data.

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I spent the recent Bank Holiday reading the new book from Rachel Cusk. A continuation of her project to—seemingly—remove not just plot but character from the modern novel, it arrives freighted with some headline-grabbing buzz about the fact that the ‘fictional’ actress of which it purports to be a portrait is a (very) thinly-veiled Natalie Portman. 

I found it a somewhat frustrating read. Cusk’s language remains mesmerising, but here it’s pointed in a distinctly ungenerous, perhaps even unkind, direction. If the person depicted in the novel were entirely the product of Cusk’s imagination, you would say that she had made it her exercise to centre the novel around someone for whom the reader is invited to feel unsympathetic. So clear are the allusions to Portman’s career, however, that it begins to feel like spite. The bulk of the slender novel is bracketed by conversations between the actress and her would-be biographer, with the closing pages seeming to contain a report of the moment in which Portman expressed her displeasure with Cusk at having written the book. To then include that conversation itself within the text is both a deft meta trick and a deeply uncool twist of the character assassin’s knife.

Where the novel does reach higher—to discuss, for example, the extent to which each of us is called upon to act out roles in our lives—the effort is fatally undermined by the framing. 

I like trying out new roasters and I like funky packaging, so this pick-up from Edinburgh’s own Cult Coffee Roasters is a win-win for me. Actually, a triple win: check out the neat tarot card-style pack-in that was foil-wrapped inside—come for the coffee, get a free bookmark. 

I’ve made a couple of cups of this already, as filter: one in the Chemex and another using a single-serving no-bypass dripper. Both have been pleasantly complex, if a little darker / heavier than I’d usually go. 

Shhh… don’t tell my reading group, but I’ve also been seeing other books. In fact, I just got done with a pair of books by British writer Jem Calder. 

Reward System (2023) is a set of interlinked stories, and this year’s I Want You to Be Happy is Calder’s first novel. The two share a similar focus, centring a relationship between a man in his mid-to-late thirties and a woman in her early-to-mid twenties. Throughout both, Calder shows compassion for his characters where it would have been easier to draw one or other of them as a villain. Both have flaws (some more serious than others), but I was impressed by the nuance with which Calder could write from both perspectives. This is the case in the novel, in particular,  where the chapters alternate perspectives, focussing first on Joey and then on Chuck as they navigate their new romance. Calder uses this oscillation to good effect. In one chapter the reader might be privy to Chuck’s self-recriminations over his own recent actions; perhaps his certainty that he has ruined things irreparably; how he agonises for so long over the best way to make an apology that he’s paralysed into not making one. Then we switch to Joey’s perspective, and witness her confusion over why she’s not heard from Chuck — the silence itself amplifying the forgivable into something worse-seeming. 

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New in the hopper this morning is this offering from Edinburgh-based roasters Carter. I didn’t get the ‘forest fruit cake’ in my first cup (as filter), but it was clean and pleasant. 

Last week we headed north to spend some time in a part of the country I’ve never been to before. On the way up we stayed overnight in York, where we spent some time walking around, dropping in for a look at Thin Ice Press, good coffee from Another Brother and out-of-this-world pizza at Dough Eyed.  

On the way out of the city we stopped in at Beningborough Hall for a walk around the gardens and the house, plus ice cream in the sunshine. The estate has a storied history, but my favourite part was a brief glimpse of a tiny hummingbird near one of the lily ponds. 

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It’s that time of year again: the season for enjoying a long(-ish) novel in the company of an unknown number of like-minded fellow readers. Friends, if you prefer—only friends you’ve maybe not met. 

Many of you know the story, but just in case you don’t, it goes like this: back in 2014 it took a small posse of folks to get me over the finish line of David Foster Wallace’s gargantuan novel Infinite Jest (1996). Since then, I’ve led a total of ten (10) read-alongs (reads along?) of long novels by the likes of Haruki Murakami, Donna Tartt, Roberto Bolaño and several others. We tackle the book at a very relaxed pace of ~100 pages per week, and each Sunday you get an email from me discussing our progress. 

We took a summer off to recharge last year, but now feels like a good time to get the gang back together and do this thing again. 

This year’s novel of choice is The Unconsoled (1995) by Kazuo Ishiguro, author of The Remains of the Day (1989) and Never Let Me Go (2005) amongst others. Ishiguro’s fourth novel, upon release it was described in The Telegraph as ‘almost indecipherable’. Our task: decipher it real good. We’ll begin on 19 Jul and finish on 30 Aug. As always, it’s free to join—you’ll just need a copy of the novel. 

Oh, you’ll also need to let me know that you want to take part. The easiest way to do that is to head over here and click the dancing ink bottle. It’d be great to have you along. 

Update: the read-along is now in progress and sign-ups are closed. You can still access the archive of newsletters whenever you like. 

This afternoon we attended a musical event with a difference. Sigur Rós: Ára is billed as ‘a fully immersive listening experience, expanding the sonic universe of Sigur Rós to new sensory dimensions’. In a small black box theatre, an audience of around 35 people sit or lie on beanbags, surrounded by the kind of darkness absolute enough that sometimes I wasn’t sure whether my eyes were open or closed. The music seems to come from all around you. Occasionally a sweet scent floats into the room. Now and again an abstract projection glows dimly into view on the ceiling, brightening a little as the music crescendos. For most of the 75 minute duration however, it’s possible to begin forgetting that you have a body at all. For me, it was somewhat reminiscent of the experience I had using a sensory-deprivation tank for the first time. 

I focussed on the music, or the music and my breathing. I tried not to try to make sense of the projected images, but the rational mind is difficult to turn off, even if experiences like this one can turn it down a little for a while.¹ For the briefest of moments, I felt able to embody the fact that if I was anything at all, I was whatever was sensing the music, the projected pattern and the sweet scent. Somewhat separated from the physicality of that act, and its ‘meaning’—if any—it was fleetingly possibly to simply receive something. 

It’s a difficult sensation to adequately capture, but I’ve no reservations about recommending it. Ára is at Oxford’s Schwarzman Centre for the Humanities until 19 July. Should it subsequently pop up near you, it’s well worth your time and attention. 

• • •

I have seen Sigur Rós live once: you’ll have to take my word for it, but this photo is from their Brixton Academy show in 2013. 

1. I noted something similar at another music / art performance piece, by Ryoicihi Kurokawa, some years ago, of which I wrote: 

   ‘It goes similarly with the visuals: they flare up, flash, morph one to another to another, spawn unanticipated lines of connection. Whilst the event notes entreat the viewer/listener not to ‘digest gradually with the head’ but rather to ‘feel simultaneously with the eyes and ears’, I found myself able to experience the work at this pre-cognitive level only for very short periods. The mind’s tendency toward processing and categorisation is too strong and too deeply ingrained to consistently suppress, and even making the effort to do so with respect to higher cognition, I found myself incapable of not perceiving the visual elements of the piece as belonging to particular sets: organic, geometric, topographical….’ ↵

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to be in the audience at the Sheldonian to see Ali Smith awarded the Bodley Medal. On that occasion she read a passage from what would later become the opening section of her next novel: Gliff (2024). I published some notes on that novel about a year later, when I finished listening to Eliot Sumner’s audiobook version. 

Recently, I re-read Gliff—this time in hardback—in preparation for my first reading of Smith’s new novel: Glyph (2026). In my notes on the first of the pair, having learned that there would be a follow-up with a homophonic title, I wrote: 

The author of a novel published in two back-to-front versions, and also of a seasonal quartet that numbers five volumes, it’s little surprise that Smith intends to extend her current project further. To mirror the first book, interrogate it, subvert it?

Turns out—unsurprisingly—that it’s option D: all of the above. 

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This week I received a card from an acquaintance in Brooklyn, artist Shawn Liu. I don’t get post all that often, and seldom is it so exciting. You see, this is no ordinary postcard, but a postcard-sized painting—one of 100 such studies that Shawn’s making as part of his current project. The intention is to send each of the paintings to people around the world; all that the recipient is asked to do is to email Shawn a photo of the painting in its new home. Eventually he’s going to turn all of those photos into a book. 

If you would like to request a postcard painting be sent to you, hop over to the project page at Shawn’s site. At the time of writing, there are still some slots available. 

Something I’ve been pondering recently is whether statements of gratitude need always contain subjects as well as objects. Which is to say, when we express ‘I am grateful for x’, does there necessarily need to be an invisible parenthetical: ‘I am grateful (to y) for x’? 

I imagine that for people of faith this question is easily answered. If such a person says ‘I am grateful for this sunny day’, it’s implicit that it is to their chosen deity that the gratitude is owed and directed. For those of us who recognise no higher power possessed of its own will, things are trickier. Perhaps the implied parenthetical can still be filled with something like ‘to nature’ in the above example, but there are other cases in which there isn’t a neat fit. When I am mindful enough to think, in a given moment, ‘I am grateful to be experiencing this’, is the gratitude owed to something as impersonal as circumstance? Is my gratitude for my good fortune being directed to the network of causes and effects that has given rise to it? 

Asked another way: can one be grateful to something that is not knowingly responsible for the object of one’s gratitude? I believe in karma as an impersonal and incomprehensibly-complex cascade of causation, but that doesn’t seem like something to which gratitude can be appropriately expressed. 

Perhaps the distinction here is better drawn between ‘thankfulness’ and ‘appreciation’. Where the object of my gratitude is the result of the actions of another will, it feels appropriate to express thanks. In those other circumstances, where I simply wish to reflect upon my good fortune, perhaps it’s more appropriate to take a moment simply to appreciate it. 

We were just in Bristol for a little over 24 hours at the start of this week. The main event was a chance to see Ben Kweller play at The Fleece—the last time I saw him was at least two decades ago, but I’m happy to report that the guy still puts on a great show. 

Whilst we were in town, we got great coffee at Society, superb vegetarian burgers at Three Brothers and (the next morning) an exceptional brunch at The Crafty Egg in Stokes Croft.

We also popped into Centrespace to check out a joint show by Jessie Woodward, George Henry Rowe and Emma Anne. Of the three, I found Woodward’s pieces, with their vibrant palate and eclectic forms, most arrested my attention. 

This week I was back at the Schwarzman Centre, but this time in a work capacity. The Vice-Chancellor’s Awards is an annual celebration of some of the amazing work being done by people all around Oxford University. My team was nominated for a project we delivered last autumn, which meant we got to take part in the showcase event on Tuesday and attend the awards ceremony itself on Thursday. The latter was fun to be part of, but it’s more than a little out of my comfort zone. Far more enjoyable was attending the showcase, wandering between the various stalls set out by other shortlisted teams and chatting with them about their amazing work. 

I went to last year’s showcase—at the Weston Library—as a visitor, and found it to be quite a bewildering experience. Where else could one possibly work, I thought to myself, where all of the activities being celebrated could fit under one umbrella? I had the same feeling this year all over again. Oxford University is such a complex, sprawling and diverse thing that it’s almost impossible to keep all of it in mind. Even reading the many internal circulars, seeking out intranet news items, and following various departments’ Bluesky accounts, there’s a lot that I miss. 

Here are just a few of the projects nominated for this year’s awards: 

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Today marks one year since the global release of the Nintendo Switch 2, and I thought I would mark the occasion with a quick rundown of how I thought the console’s first twelve months shook out, at least in terms of the games I’ve played. 

Things got started with a bona fide gem, tailor-made to be a launch title: Mario Kart World. Not only one of the Nintendo franchises with the widest appeal, featuring the company's mascot, but also the perfect showpiece for the new console’s faster loading speeds (a huge open world map with no loading screens) and online capabilities: I had some incredible sessions playing with folks across multiple continents, making the most of GameChat whilst we raced or just cruised around the game’s beautiful environments. MKW was a 10/10 for me and I did everything there is to do in that game: every trophy, unlock and collectable. 

I also got a huge amount of enjoyment from the other first-party launch title: Nintendo Switch 2 Welcome Tour. A far more niche prospect than the console’s flagship launch game, this (truly) glorified set of tech demos taught me a huge amount about the design and functionality of the console and peripherals. More than a few times I was left dumbfounded by the sheer level of thought and care that went into building the Switch 2. Contrary to what some would have you believe leading up to the machine’s launch, no one who ‘played’ this ‘game’ could come away thinking of the console as a mere underwhelming iteration on its predecessor. 

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Last week’s #newmusicfriday had a neat diptych: The Field released an album titled Now You Exist and Martyn released one titled Music for Existing. This week has something similar: Aja Monet put out her new record, The Color of Rain, and from Duval Timothy & Carlos Niño we get Rain Music. 

Really impressed with this recent pick-up from Round Hill Roastery of Somerset: smooth, clean and pleasantly sweet. This first cup was made using the Fellow Stagg Pour-Over Dripper which works perfectly with these neat Kalita Wave 185 papers. 

Yesterday was the open-house launch of the cultural programme at the University’s new Schwarzman Centre for the Humanities. I’ve stopped by the building for coffee a couple of times since it opened last year, but it was wonderful to see it so alive with people on this occasion.

We got to see the Bate Collection of musical instruments in its new home, as installed and mounted by one of our neighbours, who runs Object Workshop. The impressive central atrium was gloriously full of people of all ages, singing along with show tunes played by a Broadway pianist. And we managed to sneak into the balcony of the main auditorium, for a short, breathtaking performance by the Scottish Ensemble.

There is a thesis to be written on the ways in which social media has impacted literary fiction. Perhaps most obviously the way novels are marketed, and to whom they’re marketed, has undergone a shift. But it feels as though there have also been significant changes to both language and structure. With some frequency, I seem to pick up newer novels that are as dedicated to the art of concise, witty sentences as they are disinterested in writing at the level of the paragraph. They are also rarely invested in plot, instead operating under the (often misguided) certainty that their narrator’s inner monologue is sufficiently captivating to sustain the reader’s interest. Novels in this form are easy to read—propelled forward by one arch insight or knowing reference after another—but rarely do I finish them with the sense that it all adds up to something more. 

Patricia Lockwood’s superb No One Is Talking About This (2021) remains the finest book I’ve encountered that interrogates the qualities of this kind of fiction—employing the form’s own tools against it, revealing and then surpassing the inherent limitations.

A new major exhibition just opened at the Ashmolean Museum, titled In Bloom: How Plants Changed Our World. I’d not read much about it before visiting, but I think I had been expecting that it would focus upon the ways in which plant biology influences ecologies—a kind of inversion, perhaps, of our predisposition toward thinking of fauna as more impactful than flora. Instead, I found stories about the early days of international horticulture and the ways in which the trade in plants (tea being but one example) impacted all of the people and cultures involved. 

Plant circulation is inseparable from the circulation of capital and authority. 
— Anahita Norouzi

There’s also a section in one of the gallery spaces (explicated by a fairly good, arguably necessary audioguide) focussed on the manner in which latinate taxonomical schemas have disenfranchised botanists across several continents. 

It’s not all power imbalances and geopolitics though; I also learned that the pattern on custard creams is inspired by the curling of young ferns! 

On reflection, the exhibition is aptly titled, its focus being not on plants’ impact on the world, but specifically on our human world. That’s a very different lens than I had anticipated, and I’m feeling the need to make a return trip at some point to meet the exhibition on its own terms. I’ll also want to revisit several of its exquisite illustrations and paintings of plants and flowers.