What's your pound of flesh?

Felled trees, ancient philosophers, writer's writers and Guy Ritchie.  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ What's your pound of flesh? Felled trees, ancient philosophers, writer's writers and Guy Ritchie. I took this in Upstate New York a few months back while working on my first spoken-word album. --------------------------------------------------------------- Enroll in [Meet Cute](=), a creative writing guide illustrated by an A.I. interpretation of the American pop artist, Roy Lichtenstein. --------------------------------------------------------------- Heraclitus was a moron by all conventional standards. He threw away a winning lottery ticket. He was the heir to the throne of Ephesus––one of the largest and wealthiest cities in ancient Greece––and decided to pass the crown down to his brother. The modern day equivalent would be Tim Cook handing you the reins to Apple––along with a cool $50 million a year salary––and you tossing the keys to a colleague as you throw on your coat and walk out the door. Today, 2,600 years after Heraclitus's death, he's considered one of the greatest minds to ever grace the Earth. He was the philosopher that inspired all the philosophers that people quote today: Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, etc. In poetry and prose, we call these kinds of individuals a writer's writer. Denis Johnson is an example of a writer's writer. If you aren't a writer––or don't personally know a writer––you've likely never heard of Denis Johnson. The only reason I know about him is because I'm close friends with a great writer by the name of [Ben Cake](=). Here's Denis Johnson describing a troope of lumberjacks in his novella [Train Dreams](... "Cut off from anything else that might trouble them, the gang, numbering sometimes more than forty and never fewer than thirty-five men, fought the forest from sunrise until suppertime, felling and bucking the giant spruce into pieces of a barely manageable size, accomplishing labors, Granier sometimes thought, tantamount to the pyramids, changing the face of the mountainsides, talking little, shouting their communications, living with the sticky fell of pitch in their beards, sweat washing the dust off their long johns and caking it in the creases of their necks and joints, the odor of pitch so thick it abraded their throats and stung their eyes, and even overlaid the stink of beasts and manure." No writer reads Denis Johnson because they give a flying, far-flung fuck about logging. Writers read Denis Johnson because he had the ability to make felling trees sound as heroic and exciting as slaying goblins in Middle-earth. I remember reading that passage in Train Dreams, closing the goddamn book and researching seasonal logging gigs in Tennessee. That was a bit of an aside––for which I do apologize––but what I'm really getting at is Heraclitus was a philosopher's philosopher. To achieve this kind of stature, you have to make a sacrifice. My favorite director is a gent by the name of Guy Ritchie. He directed a brilliant film a few years back called The Gentlemen. It's about an American-born marijuana magnate named Mickey Pearson––played by Matthew McConaughey––running a drug empire in London. Somewhere in the film some poor schmuck pisses Mickey off by disrespecting his wife. To get even, Mickey locks him in a meat locker, hands him a carving knife and says he can come out when he gives him a pound of flesh. The sacrifice this man must make to keep his life is a 16 oz. steak sheared off his own ass. I think about this guy's ass often. Not so much his ass but the metaphor his ass––or soon to be lack there of––represents. When I get muddy upstairs, I'll climb into my FJ and drive it down Gallatin Avenue. I have a subscription to this car wash. It's called Mister Carwash. It costs me $35 per month in exchange for unlimited car washes. I use every dollar. I run my FJ through Mister Car Wash 2-3 times a week––not because I necessarily fancy having a clean car––but because it's cheap therapy. It's an excuse to sit still with myself without distraction. If, like me, you believe in God or some greater being, it's an excuse to pray. A prayer I've been reciting as of late is––and I believe I've shared this with you in a past issue so forgive me if I'm repeating myself––God, don't give me what I want, give me what I need. By the time I come out the other side like some marvelous egg shit out of the hind end of a chicken, the answer to my woe of the day is pretty obvious: I've got to let something go. I've got to hand over my pound of flesh. Heraclitus' pound of flesh was Ephesus. He could have eaten caviar at every meal. He could have drunk the finest of wines. He could have rubbed elbows with the most powerful people in the ancient world. He could have clothed himself in the most luxurious of purple garments. He could have gotten his dick sucked every night of the week. But, Heraclitus gave up the throne because what he was after wasn't power but wisdom. What's your pound of flesh? By [Cole Schafer](​ P.S. There's more, keep scrolling... --------------------------------------------------------------- Talk dirty to me If you run a brand in need of some romance, let's get in bed together ​ By day I run a creative copywriting shop called [Honey Copy](=). I've worked with brands the likes of Last Crumb, Meta, Bowflex and Onnit to write pretty words that make their customers fall in love with them. Real quick, here's a short-list of the writing services I offer: - Landing pages - Sales decks - Podcast ad reads - Video scripts - UX copywriting - Brand guidelines - Names, descriptions & slogans - About Us Pages If you'd like to explore a project together, email me at cole@honeycopy.com with what you have in mind or simply tap the black button down below. [HIRE ME](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- Slow down The subtle art of slow looking Museum goers spend roughly 8 seconds gazing at a piece of art before moving onto the next. While that statistic is a bit unnerving, it's forgivable when we consider both our dwindling attention spans and the sheer number of artworks crammed inside a museum. The Louvre, for example, is home to 35,000 pieces of art. Let's say you were to spend just 1 second looking at each piece of art in the Louvre. It would take you nearly 10 hours to get all the way through the museum. This begs the question: If you were to see the entire Louvre in a single day, would you have actually seen the Louvre? The answer is no. You can't truly see a piece of art in 8 seconds (let alone 1), just like you can't truly see a person by simply glancing at them. Slow looking is a practice that encourages museum goers to spend not seconds but minutes––and sometimes hours––gazing at a single piece of art. A "Slow Looker" might take a trip to the Louvre and kill 3 hours gazing at The Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault. Slow looking is a reminder that it's far better to pay more attention to less than less attention to more. [LESS IS MORE]( --------------------------------------------------------------- Drop the guillotine If you haven't yet, you should read the finale ​ ​[Guillotine](=) is the gory finale of a three-part collection of poetry and prose I penned in my twenties. The series began with [One Minute, Please?](), continued with [After Her]( and ended––rather appropriately––with Guillotine. [OFF WITH HIS HEAD](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- [[linkedin]​]() ​ [Update your email preferences]( or unsubscribe [here](​ © 2024 The Process 113 Cherry St #92768, Seattle, WA 98104-2205