Just Motes: A Secret Abundance of Mollusks

Dear Reader,

Happy New Year! Here in LA it has been rainy and cold the last few days, so the first midnight of our new year was marked by only a few neighbors setting off smuggled-in-from-Mexico fireworks. These were modest and muffled enough that they neither woke the kid nor scared the cat. I get the sense that most of us are saving up what we can for whatever it is the rest of this year will require of us. Here’s to a good 2026, and to more occasions for celebration.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading Lightplay now that I’m back on a regular-ish publishing schedule, and special thanks to those of you who have written in. It’s such a gift to have people actually read what you write, let alone respond to it. (That’s what the people excited about AI-generated writing miss: far from having a shortage of words to read, we have an all-time word glut; the sacred thing, in limited supply, which must be nurtured and treasured, is readers’ interest and time.) As a writer trying to find my way through yet another strange year of my nascent “writing career,” I count my blessings, and a big one is my own enthusiasm to continue this work. You, by reading Lightplay, contribute tangibly to that. Thank you.

I’ve got much planned for this space, this year. Much to do, all around. I’m excited to share those pieces when the time is right. For now, though, I just have a few motes to share. I hope you enjoy them. And thanks for reading.

– Jasper

How cool is it that when there’s a king tide and you happen to visit the beach at the right moment, the pilings under the pier reveal themselves to be teeming with tens of thousands of barnacles and mussels?

A secret abundance of mollusks? Their whorls and queer intelligence lurking just out of sight, just below the waterline, beneath the utter consumerist mundanity of the Santa Monica Pier? A good reminder. (Related: the sex lives of mussels.)

Lisa wrote a big end-of-year post with the great title, “Ode to a horny universe.” I of course love the part of the newsletter that gives it its title, an essay about gooning, gooning discourse, Heated Rivalry, and the braindead-but-sexy-or-is-he TikToker William White. It includes both the term “no-nut nirvana” and,

Lit-gooners of the world, unite!

I also loved the meditations in the post about the strange work of running an MFA program while being a writer oneself. I nodded intensely at the part about how in 2025 it was not only hard to write, it was hard even to find time and energy to attempt to write:

Last week when I wrote about reading a Big Winter Book™ and taking lots of baths, I somehow neglected to include the reference photograph of Mason & Dixon resting upon the requisite next-to-bath hand-drying towel. I apologize for the oversight.

Over the holidays we saw not one but two puppet shows put on by the Bob Baker Marionette Theater here in LA. Both were great, high recommend.

Puppet shows are one of those activities—like clown performances, singalongs, and campfire ghost story sessions—that our society classifies as kid fare. One of the great things about being a parent is receiving regular reminders of how stupid these distinctions are.

Getting to know this new-to-me artform, I’m learning about all the different bits of artistry you can enjoy. Some pleasures are obvious: the way certain puppets, in the hands of certain puppeteers, do briefly seem to come to life; the novelty of seeing different marionette designs and discovering what they can do. But I’m coming to appreciate some of the subtler pleasures, too: the way a show can play with size and timing and depth; the craftsmanship of the marionettes; the beautiful vacant expressions of the puppeteers.

I sometimes think about getting into opera, another medium in which I’m utterly unversed. It’s exciting to know that in just about any artform—or for that matter activity, profession, skill—there inheres an invitation expand your capacity for appreciation, enjoyment, and pleasure.

After about 18 months of deteriorating functionality, our old gooseneck kettle finally died. We bought a new one on a Black Friday sale, and for the most part it’s neither more nor less than fine. It boils water quickly and pours it slowly and precisely. Great! But it has one killer feature: the “keep warm” button. How often in my life have I set water to boil, walked away, and come back ten minutes later only to find it has cooled? Often. But no longer. Bless this feature!

An update from my mote last month about the unintentional humor of auto-zooming and -panning on Zoom calls. It turns out this wasn’t an Apple thing. Instead it’s a new-ish “feature” on Zoom. If you or someone you know is afflicted, here’s how to turn it off: click the little carat symbol next to the camcorder symbol and then uncheck “Auto-frame my video.” (At least I think that’ll do it.)

One more tech update: after complimenting Apple Maps for including an accidental (I assume) fidget spinner, I’m annoyed at the application for withholding key pieces of directions until the last possible moment. For instance, here’s a screenshot from a recent drive to the beach:

I was ~200 feet from needing to steer myself onto the 10 West instead of the 10 East; how entirely unhelpful to be told to take “10 East and 10 West.”

Now I’m sure that branching exits are an interesting and confounding UI problem—but come now, this can’t be the best solution!

If you see them in a grocery store, why not buy some kiwifruit, quarter them, peel their hairy skin, and slurp down a few wedges of alien-green, tart-sweet flesh?

I’m so glad to have you as a reader. If you’ve enjoyed this email, have you considered forwarding it to a friend? And if someone forwarded it to you, have you considered subscribing?