Leaving Facebook

Exodus Almost Complete

Imagine I told you that I could flat-out solve the problem of staying in touch with the people you care about? I know that you know hundreds of people from different times in your life, and I know that you can’t keep track of their contact information, let alone find time to check in with them periodically. Well I’m going to make it easy for you; I’ll take all the work out of it. I’ll apply my secret powers to serve you as your one and only social information broker. I’ll make information about your friends’ lives flow to you, and I’ll make information about your life flow to them. It’ll be great. You’ll know what they’re up to, all the time, and they’ll know what you’re up to, all the time. But there’s a catch. Without explicitly requiring it, I’m going to encourage you to check in with me a few dozen times a day. Without explicitly demanding it, I’m going to persuade you to dedicate hours and hours of your week to me. And while you’re coming to me for information about your friends, I’m going to show you a few advertisements and notifications. Yes, I’ll let you know how your college classmate’s cancer treatment is going (second round of chemo for Stage IV cancer) but before I tell you that, I’m going to ask you if you want to buy a wristwatch, and after I tell you that I’m going to see if you’re interested in taking a trip to the Bahamas. I’m going to tell you about the death of a beloved former co-worker (tragic heart attack while on vacation) and give you a chance to say something about it, but while you’re grieving, I’m going to flash some notifications in your face (a few people are sending you messages right now, someone else “likes” a joke you made earlier, and I’m still wondering if you want to buy that wristwatch or go to the Bahamas). I’m going to give you a chance to read a friend’s review of a fascinating book about the future of democracy, but while you’re reading that thoughtful and lengthy review, I’m going to give you the opportunity to watch a video of a boxing match, if you prefer; or a video of some models on a catwalk, if you prefer; or a video of cats being silly, if you prefer. I’m going to show you a photo of a beautiful cake that your loving grandmother just baked, but before and after I do that, I’m going to show you some hateful and false things a few of your friends are saying (meanwhile, I hope you’ll consider that wristwatch). And as all this is happening, I’m going to keep careful notes about everything you do and say in my presence. Every time you ask me for more information about something, I’ll make a note of it. Every time you react to something I showed you, I’ll make a note of it. Every time you say something to a friend through me as your broker, I’ll make a note of it. I’m going to take all those notes about you and sell them to some friends of my own who are very curious about you, but don’t worry about them, I assure you they have your best interests at heart. Are you interested in that wristwatch, by any chance?

That’s why I left Facebook. I closed my account on Dec 13, 2019, two days after my Farewell, Facebook post. I was going to keep it open for a few more days but a friend posted a playful comment questioning whether I was really going to leave. I took this as a challenge. Of course, Facebook tries its best to lure users back and doesn’t make an account deletion permanent for thirty days. So I’m still in purgatory as I type this. That’ll end on Jan 12, 2020.

Screen Shot 2019-12-14 at 1.39.46 AM copy.png

Addendum: the reason why I chose to use a wristwatch ad as an example in this post is because I recently learned the tongue-twister “I wish to wash my Irish wristwatch” and challenged a friend to say it. Shortly after he said it aloud, he started seeing Facebook mobile ads for wristwatches, for the very first time. This suggests a new tongue-twister:

I wish to wish to wash my Irish wristwatch, risking not my wishing’s watched.


Leaving Facebook

Farewell, Facebook

Dear Friends,

If we were connected on Facebook, I will miss our connection there.

Some of you might remember that my New Year’s resolution for 2019 was to permanently end the exploitative relationship that I’ve had with Mark Zuckerberg since 2009 (hint: I’m not the one who’s been doing the exploiting). I gave myself until December 31, 2019 to close my Facebook account, and that date is rapidly approaching.

I will honor the resolution in the coming days. I will do so with great relief, but also with a sense of loss. I’ll be losing a way to stay in touch with many of the people I care about most, and a way to connect with many of those I’d like to know better. Perhaps I will be losing more than I gain, and certainly it would be easier to cop out and keep my account open, but that’s where resolutions come in handy, and I know I made this one for good reasons.

I’ve been preparing for a while. I’ve seen a lot of people get fed up with Facebook and abruptly close their accounts, an action that I fully understand and support. But I wanted to be more deliberate about my own departure. I wanted to take some time to review my decade of Facebook history, clear it out post by post, and try to preserve a bit of it here on this blog. You can find much of my old Facebook material by clicking here (all of it all has the #facebook tag). I’ve also written a bunch of posts about my departure process. These posts can be found in the Leaving Facebook category on this blog.

How to stay in touch? Since you’re reading this blog, you can of course message or follow me here on WordPress. I have a gmail account and my address follows the format first.last@gmail.com — send me a note. I’ve created an account on MeWe. I’m not sure how much I’ll use it, but it’s there. I’m @rudiseitz on twitter. My music is up on my Bandcamp page and there are a few other tracks on my soundcloud. I’ve got some random photos up on my flickr and a few videos on my youtube. I contribute limericks to OEDILF under the username Rudi, and I once founded a wordplay website called Quadrivial Quandary that’s now somewhat dormant and awaiting a revival. That’s my online presence in a nutshell. I live in East Boston, MA, USA overlooking Boston Harbor and listening to planes take off and land at Logan Airport. If you don’t know me: I’m a self-employed software developer and musician.

Facebook has given me a lot. Thinking only of my musical life, there’s so much. It was through Facebook that I met the collaborator who would perform my canons on harpsichord and clavichord. It was through Facebook that I learned about a Dhrupad retreat with Pandit Nirmalya Dey that I attended in India, leading later to the maestro’s performance in Boston. It was through Facebook that I learned about a workshop on composing with Indian percussion that led me to write a concerto for tabla. And it was through Facebook that I heard of the New England Songwriter’s Retreat with Ellis Paul, the event that made me realize I want to be a songwriter.

Facebook is where I’ve connected with friends and classmates from my distant past and in some cases, where I’ve received in disbelief the first announcement that someone I cared about had passed away. Facebook is where I’ve gotten to witness my friends brainstorming, quipping, sharing intimate thoughts, details of their recent meals, travel adventures, reactions to world events, advice on life and where to get a good drink. Facebook is where I’ve come across the best articles, the best music clips, the best local events. Facebook is where I’ve followed some great and inspiring activism like Warren Senders’ Man With A Sign project to raise awareness about climate change.

But I became paralyzed on Facebook. I couldn’t post anymore without thinking about how my data was being collected, packaged, monetized in ways not transparent. I couldn’t click the “like” button without thinking about how my likes were helping Facebook build a better profile of me, not for my own benefit but for that of third parties unknown to me. I couldn’t scroll around without remembering that Facebook tracks my mouse movements. I couldn’t give myself to Facebook without thinking about how the platform has become a conduit for misinformation and hate. I stopped posting, but I kept reading. And yet it didn’t feel right to see my friends pour their hearts out there while I remained silent, too suspicious of the platform to engage with even their most impassioned posts. It was time for me to leave. It is time for me to leave. I’ve written about this here and I spoke about it in an episode of the Soonish podcast with journalist Wade Roush, who left Facebook earlier this year and inspired my own departure.

There’s got to be a better way for humans to experience connection and community in the digital age. A better way than the one Mark Zuckerberg has sold us. Here’s to finding it.




I started photographing trail blazes a while back. As I looked for an image to accompany this post, the one above struck me as right.








Old Beer Labels

I was sorting through old boxes yesterday — part of recent decluttering kick — and I came across a folder of beer labels: Tucher, Paulaner, Chimay, Affligem, Kirin, Pete’s Wicked Ale. They’re from a time in my teens when I was discovering the world of beer, a world that seemed so new and exciting to me that I would soak each empty bottle overnight, peel the label off, dry it on a paper towel, and then transfer it to a scrapbook so that I would have a record of my journey. After a year of doing this, I stopped. The collection never became the comprehensive journal that I imagined it might be, but still I felt attached to it, so I saved it. It stayed with me through many apartments, many jobs, many phases of life, in storage, entering my awareness once every five or ten years during a move, accompanying me all the way into my forties.

Yesterday I managed to throw it out. Finally. Here’s why it took so long:

Over the years, whenever I thought about throwing the labels away, I would remember my former self, the person who decided to start the collection. I’d remember his optimism about the future, his faith that these mementos he was saving would be wanted and appreciated indefinitely, that they would stay useful as triggers for recollection. I’d think of that kid who diligently preserved each label as if to assemble a gift for the person he was going to become. I’d imagine how disappointed he would be to learn that his older self would have no use for the gift. I’d imagine how crushed he would be to know that the romantic image of his older self fondly flipping through the collection and experiencing a surge of delightful memories would never, in fact, materialize.

I’d feel so mortified at the thought of letting my younger self down that I’d play a game of sorts, pretending that I still wanted the labels as he would have wanted me to. I’d reason that it wouldn’t hurt me to humor him, to put the labels back in a storage box, put the box in my attic, keep it a while longer.

Something changed yesterday. I tried an experiment. The experiment was to imagine my future self, the person I’ll be in ten or twenty years. What is my attitude toward that older person? Would I want him to faithfully preserve all of things he inherits from me? Would I want him to live in my mess? Would I want him to slavishly attend to all of my unfinished projects? Would I expect him to value everything I value now? Or would I want him to be free to seek fulfillment in his own present, unencumbered by the stuff I’m passing on to him?

I realized that my message to my future self, if there were some way I could convey it to him, would be this: “Go for it, guy. Do what you gotta do. Enjoy the time you have. I hope you’ll remember me. I hope you’ll feel connected to me. But don’t overdo it. I give you full permission to throw away every single thing I acquired, and to stop any project I started if it’s not helping you be whole.”

I’m not sure my teenage self would have formulated the same thought, but I’m sure if I could talk with him for a little while and explain some of the things I’ve learned over the years, he’d be on board with the message too. And he’d be happy that I finally got rid of those beer labels.


Jul 2 Fireworks

After years of photographing Boston harbor fireworks from my vantage point in East Boston with short exposures, I finally decided to work on the long exposure technique. Boston’s July 4th fireworks happen over the Charles River but this year there were also July 2nd fireworks over the harbor as the conclusion of Boston HarborFest’s Parade of Lights.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.



Canons 81 and 82

Announcing two new Canons, #81 “Selenite” and #82 “Kyanite.”

These pieces were written as an exploration of the rhythmic pattern of 8 pulses divided as 3+3+2.

One place where I had encountered this pattern before is the bluegrass guitar crosspicking pattern: down-down-up, down-down-up, down-up. Another place it appears is in the final piece of Bartók’s Mikrokosmos which uses the mixed time signature 3/8+3/8+2/8 — and that’s the choice I made here.

As these pieces came together, I noticed I could feel the pulse in two different ways. It’s possible to count in eight notes “ONE-two-three ONE-two-three ONE-two” which matches where the accents actually fall in the music. But since we have a total of eight eighth notes, everything fits into a 4/4 measure. In fact, it’s possible interpret the pieces as being in 4/4 and count quarter notes “ONE-two-three-four”, in which case you’ll perceive a syncopation where the accented third beat of each 4/4 measure comes early. Here’s the rhythmic figure that occurs at the beginning of both pieces, written two ways:


Selenite and Kyanite are related by more than their rhythmic pattern: they emerged from different versions of the same outline. Selenite is a canon at the second above; Kyanite is a canon at the seventh below. Both pieces have a two-measure delay and are 21 measures long. They are dissonant canons that emphasize minor sevenths, major seconds, and perfect fourths. Instead of aiming for uniform dissonance, however, both pieces have consonances interwoven among the dissonances, aiming for some sense of tension and resolution. In these pieces I was guided by my ear and a certain sound I wanted to achieve, as opposed to any systematic policy for making contrapuntal choices; still, the question of whether something was “admissible” mostly seemed clear to me and I did not feel much uncertainty in deciding whether a particular idea fit into the sound-world I was trying to create. The one point that did cause me some questioning was the treatment of parallel fifths and octaves. Selenite took shape as one of my canons where the sound of parallel fifths is embraced; I assumed Kyanite would be the same but later I found myself editing out the many of the parallels that I had included there. Why did the parallels seem to belong in one piece but not the other that’s so similar? I have no idea.

When I finished writing Selenite I tried to swap the top and bottom lines but the result was not convincing. This surprised me because I had earlier tried inverting the skeleton (the initial outline that I used for the piece) and I liked how it sounded. Sometimes, but not always, when the skeleton for a piece responds well to inversion, the finished piece does too; in this case, it didn’t. I looked for ways to edit the inverted piece to make it work, but didn’t get very far. I felt there was still some material worth exploring, so I decided to write a new piece from the inverted skeleton. I wondered if the new piece might pair well enough with the first piece that they could live together as sections of a larger piece. But the new material turned out to be different enough that I gave it its own name, Kyanite.

I think of these as modal pieces. In Selenite, the leader starts in C Dorian, makes an excursion to C Ionian (with a glimpse of C Lydian) and returns to C Dorian. In Kyanite the leader starts in Bb Dorian, makes an excursion to Bb Lydian to Bb Ionian, and then ends in Bb Mixolydian. In both pieces, the follower uses a different mode that has the same note set as the leader. So in Selenite, for example, while the leader is in C Dorian the follower is in D Phyrgian.


Random Fireworks

On Thursday May 2, at 10:30PM, I was in bed when an unrelenting series of booms and thuds convinced me the world was about to end. It turned out to be random fireworks. Having lived near Boston Harbor for years, I’ve seen lots of fireworks and I know that these shows are sometimes put on by private organizations who see fit to use their spending power to inflict their own “private” celebration on the entire city. Still, I couldn’t imagine that such a thing would be happening at 10:30PM so early in the season with no warning. Once I realized that the world wasn’t ending, I got out my camera and took these photos.







Canon 80, Mellite

Here’s my eightieth canon, Mellite:

This piece continues my exploration of odd meter. It’s in 9/8 but instead of subdividing the bar as 3+3+3, it uses 3+2+2+2.

Uptempo compared to many of my other pieces, Mellite is an invertible canon at the fifth above / fourth below. It’s in a three-section format where the bass is the leader initially, then the material repeats with the soprano as the leader, and then it repeats again with the bass as the leader, now transposed lower while the soprano is higher. The first section has some voice crossings. In between sections there’s a deliberate “fusion” of the voices in parallel octaves for one bar. The lines constantly alternate between simple and compound melody. The tonality is F major with an excursion in each section to the dominant key of C and a return.

Looking through the score note by note, you would see lots of similar motion between the parts but if you look at the skeleton of the piece, it emphasizes contrary motion. This is a tension that interests me.

The audio is different from any of the clips that I’ve included in my “Canon Previews” album so far. Typically, when I release a software-generated preview clip, I use the same basic piano sound and I put minimal effort into tweaking the musical “interpretation” that the software produces. I like it this way. I don’t really want my preview clips to be too refined. That’s because I want each piece to someday fall under the care of a (human) performer, and I want to leave room for them to make their own choices and for me to hear the unexpected in their approach. But in the case of Mellite, I did a little more work on the preview audio than usual. I couldn’t get my notation software, Finale, to play the piece with the accents how I wanted them, so I opened the piece in a MIDI editor and started changing note velocities, and from there I experimented with different virtual instruments.

The mineral Mellite is also called honeystone. I was initially attracted to this name for Canon 80 because the upbeat energy of the piece makes me think of the color yellow. While honey moves slowly, and Canon 80 does not, I do like to imagine the bustling activity of bees making honey as I listen to it.





Canon #79, Diaspore

Here’s my Canon #79 – “Diaspore.”

I wrote this piece to explore 11/8 time, divided as 3+3+3+2.

In a recent post, I reflected on why I hadn’t managed to use an odd time signature in any of my first seventy-five canons. The reason is that I’m often seeking rhythmic contrast between the two voices, and I found it difficult to achieve such contrast while still reinforcing the structure of the odd meter. It seemed to me that in order respect the meter, I needed to make the voices more rhythmically similar, but for reasons good or bad, I simply didn’t want to do that. Finally, in Canons 76, 77, and 78 I found an approach I liked. The idea was to have the theme alternate between different subdivisions of the odd meter. So, for example, the theme in Canon 79 alternates between 3+2+2 and 2+2+3 subdivisions of 7/8. When such a theme is layered on itself with a skew, we hear contrasting subdivisions at once. A sense of rhythmic contrast is built into the framework, as is the indisputable fact of being in the odd meter. But now with Canon 79, I think I’ve managed to take the simple, direct approach to writing a canon in an odd meter. In Canon 79, at all times, in both voices, the same subdivision of 11/8 as 3+3+3+2 is operative. And lo and behold, there’s still enough rhythmic variety for my ear.

The piece is harmonically simple, falling squarely in A major with no alterations. It’s an invertible canon at the second, with diatonic imitation, and a lag of one bar. The soprano is the leader in the first half, and the roles are reversed in the second half. The ethos is buoyant.

For whatever reason, I seem to be more at home writing melodies that favor stepwise as opposed to arpeggiated motion; this piece is a rare example where a more arpeggiated style felt natural to me.

I’m happy with how the piece came out, but as I was writing it and listening to some of the early drafts, I wondered if it was just a “toy.” This got me thinking about the differences between “toy” and “miniature” in my own lexicon. To me, a toy is a small disposable piece, a piece that you write to learn something or to demonstrate a point, but that you wouldn’t revisit beyond a few listens because you don’t expect to discover anything new in it. A miniature can be mistaken for a toy because it’s also small and might seem simple, but if you make it your focus, you find enough subtlety and beauty within the piece’s narrow confines to envelop your entire awareness. That’s to say a miniature can become gigantic in your mind, while a toy cannot. As for an etude or technical study, it can be either toy or a miniature.

Of course I’m aiming to write miniatures, not toys, but if one of my pieces seems like a toy should I still give it a name and number and include it in my collection? I suppose so, if I like it well enough. Sometimes what one dismisses as a toy turns out to be a miniature. And sometimes a toy can be made into a miniature with a few small changes. Many of the canons I now consider as miniatures began as toys.




Canon #78, Verdite

Announcing Canon #78 – “Verdite.” Listen to it here:

Canon 78 continues my exploration of odd time signatures – it’s in 7/8 – and it’s a companion piece to Canon 77 which is in 5/4. Like the earlier piece, Canon 78 is an invertible canon at the second, with a lag of one bar. The imitation is diatonic and the sonority emphasizes thirds and sixths. The piece is mostly in G major with some excursions to C. The melody is conceived with an alternating pattern of subdivisions of each 7/8 measure, going like this: 3+2+2 / 2+2+3 / 3+2+2 / 2+3+3. When such a melody is layered on itself with a skew of one bar, we repeatedly hear 3+2+2 against 2+2+3. At least, we hear a sense of 3+2+2 against 2+2+3; we don’t hear exactly that because the melody has been densely elaborated on top of that metrical framework and does stray from the framework or obscure it at times. The bass is the leader in the first half, and the roles are reversed in the second half. The ethos is sprightly and the texture is saturated. The piece came together pretty quickly, which for me means a few days. As with many canons, it was the cadences that caused me the most questioning. In many of my invertible canons I place a full cadence at the end of the first half and often leave a pause before beginning the inverted section. In this case I wanted to keep the motion going across sections, so I tried the make the cadence at the midpoint less conclusive than I normally would. As for the final cadences, they’re often challenging because, while you can always get the motion to stop, it’s not always apparent how to do that in a short space and do it in a way that’s convincing and satisfying. Here the solution involved bringing the lines quickly through an initial deceptive cadence, moving into an extra bar of free counterpoint which leads to the final cadence. A C# in one place hints at D major, which seems to add some freshness to the final return to G.