When the mechanical keyboard moves to the periphery Even a ...

2026-10-19T03:13:12Z

When the mechanical keyboard moves to the periphery

Even a cursory view of my website will tell you that I write at length
and in depth. The keyboard is an essential tool for my computing
experience. It connects my brain to the machine. Words in my head get
converted to characters on the screen through key presses that are
embedded as muscle memory. The creative process is as much a matter of
thought as it is a sensory experience.
All the configurations I make converge on a single goal: to close the
gap between mind and matter. I want there to be as little friction as
possible between me and the computer. This is how I avoid distractions
and remain focused on the task of expressing myself in earnest.
Having a refined interface is of paramount importance. Such is a
maximalist approach, for it demands attention to every aspect of the
whole. It is why I am deliberate about my GNU Emacs setup—why I even
picked Emacs to begin with—and why I am so attuned to colours and
typography (I have designed the Aporetic fonts and have 40+ original
themes for Emacs).
My split mechanical keyboard is here to improve the ergonomics of
typing. It augments my ability to input commands and write as much as
I wish. I am otherwise not especially interested in keyboards as a
hobby. They are cool, sure, though there is nothing in them that
captures my attention independent of the utility they offer me.
I nonetheless spent a considerable amount of time researching the
constituents of a mechanical keyboard. I developed a reasonably good
understanding of keycaps, switches, and relevant materials to the
point where I can reason about which arrangements suit my preferences.
The product of these efforts is something I greatly enjoy though I
know that it can, in theory, be optimised further, as I have
documented in previous entries to this section of my website.
Optimisation has diminishing returns to scale. The more you try it,
the less you gain out of every additional unit of effort. This,
however, assumes that optimality is pursuant to another goal, for only
then can it have a constant against which it is assessed. In my case,
I tweak the relevant variables in order to facilitate my creativity.
This is true for the keyboard but also for every other part of the
broader computing environment.
Put differently, the keyboard project is subordinate to the rigours of
the creative process, which itself contributes to the superordinate
objective of personal wellness, which in turn involves a commitment to
wellness at-large emanating from my immediate milieu outwards.
By being creative, I remain content with myself. This is the outlet
for my innate curiosity and attendant inquisitiveness. I work towards
an end that adds meaning to my life. It is what I can unequivocally
consider worthwhile and never have regrets doing. In effect, I find
fulfilment in the adventure of exploring this world in a manner that
feels appropriate to me.
The pursuit of optimality yields negative returns to scale, i.e. is
wasteful, whenever it obfuscates and then usurps the ulterior motive.
If I keep tinkering with the keyboard, or Emacs, or my tiling window
manager for Linux, or anything else for that matter, at the expense of
my creative output, then that is a clear sign that I am moving down
the wrong path.
This is not exact science. It is alright to have some downtime to
build capacity. Though it has to be couched in terms of practical
reasonableness: do the tools actively inhibit you right now or do they
already work mostly okay? The former is a clear-cut call for more
effort on the fundamentals of the configuration. Whereas the latter
suggests that time can, at the very least, be divided between
tinkering and creativity.
Such has been my reality in broad terms for several weeks over the
course of the past few years. Though I have reached a point of
stability where the gap between my mind and my computer is so small
that bridging it is of no import. I can produce at will and am highly
effective in this regard.
My consistency hints at a well-designed setup that is conducive to the
actual target I am aiming at. It has all I need and does what I
expect. I am writing this essay right now. Yesterday I wrote another
that reached the 2000-word mark and then spent 3 hours programming
during a live stream, among other tasks. Such is the norm for this
week, and the week before, and the months prior, and so on.
I enjoy what I am doing because I effectively cleared the space at the
centre of my conscience. It is a receptacle for every activity I
engage in: I can direct my undivided attention to the given task in
full confidence that everything else will perform up to the standard I
have set.
The keyboard, Emacs, and all the rest, are still here without me
having to periodically confirm as much. As I am typing now, I am
looking at my carefully designed Emacs environment which uses my
Aporetic font design. I am running one of my themes and am benefiting
on a daily basis from several thousand lines of Elisp code that I have
programmed myself on top of the free software that the Emacs ecosystem
makes available. This keyboard shares the same quality of thoughtful
consideration throughout. It has a particular style that fits my
use-case and copes with the task splendidly.
This extended interface is not at the forefront of my attention at all
times. It is right now while I am describing it. Though it otherwise
moves with ease to the periphery of my conscience, allowing me to
channel my vitality towards whatever field of endeavour I am involved
in.
As I am typing, I have a consistent feedback which I can be attentive
to though also let disappear into the background. The keyboard is not
perfect, though it occupies that notional spot of being “good enough”
without demanding the equivalent of a full-time job’s effort to excel
at what I need it for. Everything from the keycap profile to the
switch type contributes to an emergent quality of flux: it flows from
the centre of consciousness to the periphery and back.
What bothers us, in essence, is that which does not move away from the
centre; that which resists shifting to the periphery of our attention.
I design my system to achieve this mental fluidity so that it enables
me to control it. Part of that effort is down to the innate properties
of the interface: to organise it in such a way that no part of it is
bothersome, else misaligned with my immediate and ultimate ends.
Though the other part is strictly a matter of attitude. It consists in
mindfulness, in the awareness of my ranked goals.
We liberate themselves from distractions and false wants as soon as we
are able to articulate our priorities and values. We must have a clear
sense of our most cherished good, else that towards we are moving.
Those who have not yet made such a judgement are effectively stranded
in the desert without means of reorientation and are beset by a
pervasive sense of dread.
The end goal is what empowers us to course correct. By having the
lodestar in sight, we can tell when we are drifting away from it.
Concretely, if I spend all day messing around with the computer
without ever finding the time to write, then I start to feel bad about
myself.
My sense of failure can only be understood in relation to my intuition
of what success might look like. I cannot experience failure about
something for which I have no notion of its success state or, indeed,
no concept of it at all. For as long as I feel wrong about something,
I can reason about its benign expression even if I may not be able to
grasp it completely.
In my case, the goal is crystal clear. All the work at the level of
the interface sets me up for a lifestyle that is defined by streaks of
succesful creative sessions. I keep firing on all cylinders because
(i) I know what I want and (ii) have cleared the space so that I can
do it.
Keyboards are fun in their own right. Just how Emacs is an interesting
program as such. Though I am not obsessed with the keyboard or Emacs,
in the sense that I do not care about either of them in themselves.
When I go places, I never talk about these areas of interest I have. I
would rather learn something about the world and the forms of life
throughout. I prefer to listen to people, to understand a little bit
better the actualised possibility they embody, and to broaden my mind
accordingly.
It is exactly due to the aforementioned flux that I do not mistake the
interface to the computer with my identity. It contributes to my goals
and does not detract from other parts of life. I enjoy it insofar as
it is not trying to be the epicentre of my conscience. Now it is here,
then it will be there, which is nice.
I am thus able to effectively travel between worlds, from the
immediate reality of my place to the cosmic mind in which what is
thought is present, such that the potential and the actual are one.
The keyboard project cannot be reduced to a mere keyboard project in
my personal case: it is a part of the whole and therein lies its utility.
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When the mechanical keyboard moves to the periphery Even a ...