Will probably finish Notes from a Dead House at some point today. These hardened vignettes, living amongst the prisoners of a far-flung Siberian prison has paired nicely with the weather. The injection of a kind humanity, spread across a few paragraphs, about the prison dogs were a fleeting relief, only to be reminded of abject nature of confined men (or people, really). When walls close in, we all seek remodelling. Walks lately have been paired with the new Mogwai record (see here), that sort of cold optimism that I remember in those early M83 albums.

Last couple of days: Real McCoys Sweatshirt/Thinking about ghosts/Over-caffeinating/The seemingly easier way it is to care about another

Waxing Crescent

-30-

Yesterday was truly liminal day, occupying spaces and times of unfamiliarity. Skirting off to a different timezone, and back. All to be done to be in bed for a decent hour. Mission accomplished I believe. All I could think about while airborne were the ideas I need to tend to, the ones that make a life fuller not the one’s that result in being paid. Oh, and that I really like those boots.

Last Couple of Days: Inhaler – Your House/”Millennial High School Drama”/Rolling Dub Trio boots/Quickly identifying with Jim Harrison/Who actually enjoys the sun setting early? What is the secret?

Waning Crescent.

-30-

I wish I liked magic tricks, or at least succumbed to the potential of what they could be. I wonder if Harry thinks I have anything to do with the sun rising, or setting early or late as the air gets warmer or cooler. Is it a magic trick with each toy both beloved and more for me than him? The easy spend to calm a conscious from a throwaway terse moment. I wonder if I can surprise myself one day?

Today: 20 years since Digital Ash In A Digital Urn/”I Believe In Symmetry“/“I would add, not with an admixture of that gleeful feeling which sometimes reaches the point of a need to deliberately chafe your own wound, as if you wish to admire your own pain, as if the consciousness of the extent of your misfortune indeed affords pleasure.” – Notes from a Dead House, 67/Oni 266CD

Waning Crescent

-30-

One of the subtle acts of adulthood is exploring and considering the fissures of our lives. Changes and voids, slender opportunities for varying types of decanting of our essence, or what we perceive to be our essence. Some will spend years amongst the larger rocks, trying to sweep them into the void through endless iterating, convinced there are angles in reducing mass. Others will live surface-side amongst the sharp pebbles, choosing a path of pain as a righteous cause. I have not quite decided where I sit in this spectrum, I know I’ve swept, sorted, and piled rocks in the manner that delights me, but cataloguing the moment is not truly succumbing to it.

Last day or two: Music From Big Pink/Joe McCoy Chinos/Rugged Scents/”Friendship really is a series of small forgivenesses” – Nick Cave on ankle boots, Fashion Neurosis

Waning Crescent

-30-

Two weeks into a 40th year, under the most ideal of conditions—a great woman in my heart, another great woman in my ears, and generally keeping towards horizons. Tonight I wanted to scream into the abyss of shaken confidence, and nonsensical mistrust in my own capabilities and strengths. The void, or the afterword, can leave behind a trail of ruin that is thorny at best with clear demarcations, or utterly grown over and all you can do is watch the sun move across the sky and wonder “why?”

The watch kept time in irregular patterns, speeding with each vulgarity, slowing in each exhalation, yet all netting to the same rhythms we’ve agreed upon.

Waning Gibbous

-30-