On Writing & Worlding — Part 2 of 2
A couple years ago, I started collecting “spiderwebs in the wind.” These are calming videos of spiderwebs moving as wind blows through them.
I’m always amazed how resilient the webs are, especially when tested by the wind. They are delicate yet strong.
And often, a spider is along for the ride …
The wind reminds me that spiders “think with their webs.”
Spiders can tell from the vibrations what sort of insect they have caught, and hone in on it. There is a reason why the webs are radial, and the spider plants itself at the convergence of the radii. The strands are an extension of its nervous system.
In other words, you could say spiders’ webs are extensions of their minds.
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Where does the mind end and the world begin, anyway?
This question dances in my mind just as beautifully today as five years ago, when I first encountered it.
I learned about the “Extended Mind Thesis” in a New Yorker profile in 2018. It featured Andy Clark, one of the philosophers and cognitive scientists behind the theory, which essentially shares that the mind does not exclusively reside in the brain, or even the body, but extends beyond and into the physical world.
For instance, let’s say you have an important notebook. Inside this notebook, you write down valuable information that you rely on regularly. If you lose this notebook, you’re actually losing part of your mind.
I remember feeling so at peace in an all encompassing, totalizing sort of way after understanding this. The mind doesn’t stop where the world begins, but extends into and through it.
(I also remember enjoying the art for the profile, which pictured the Clark looking off camera, with radial lines emanating from himself and into the calm dark teal background.)
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It’s always grounding for me to remember that writing is a technology.
If I want to remember something, like something beautiful or useful my friend said, I can write it down. Now, my brain no longer has to remember the specific beautiful or useful thing my friend said, because I stored it safely in my notes. In this way, writing can be a memory aid.
There are other types of writing, of course. I’ve been thinking lately about writing as a sensory organ. Or writing as a way of expanding my perception and connection to the universe.
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It’s interesting it’s October now, as I like thinking of myself as a spider.
While spiders don’t write or publish (well, besides Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web), they do carefully build webs and wait patiently within their center, open to vibrations of their world. When I decide to write, I’m open to vibrations.
Writing as we often understand it (solitary, at the keyboard) is simply one part of a larger, more expansive cycle. Writing is an entire process, much of it enmeshed in the world.
It begins with vibrations. The vibrations could be things we’re intensely curious about; things we notice over and over. Or maybe the vibrations are useful and beautiful conversations we’re having with our friends.
The first draft of writing is always in the world. Sometimes it’s drafted in the air. Conversations let us understand the contours of an idea and publish something ephemerally for a moment, beginning the process.
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I always know an idea is worth continuing if I can do incremental research at parties. These ideas are often timeless yet playful … solid and porous simultaneously. You could say these ideas are lightweight yet resilient, similar to our spiderwebs in the wind.
This is Laurel’s “Another Day in the Dome” newsletter, which is sent frequently. Full and expanding references can be found in this Are.na Channel: On Writing & Worlding. Thank you for experiencing this transmission.
Hi everyone,
This is Part 2 of 2 of “Writing and Worlding.” I hope you enjoyed it!
In Part 1, I essentially shared that environments are key to the writing process. In other words, “writing is different anywhere you do it,” as Wesley says. You can construct that place first if you like, notebook world-building style.
This time in Part 2, I think of writing as just one part of a larger process or cycle, and how maybe we can expand our definition of writing to include everything that happens before the solitary act of typing words in a particular order. Writing is very lived and social, entirely sustained on conversations we’re having and things we’re noticing in the world! It’s like we are spiders, and those conversations and curiosities are bugs trapped in our web…
Wishing you a good spooky season,
Laurel
