There goes one week into the new year. My thoughts are scattered after a myriad of quotidian details and handlings. Such is the nature of education.
More Stanley Turrentine and Shirley Scott to begin the day. Thinking more as work inches ever closer. Not particularly worried about anything, just thinking.
Getting back to it.
Sitting on the ground with a Discman and Cannonball Adderlay. Welcome 2026.
Here we are at the dying days of December. I'm devouring these CDs I purchased, and I realized that perhaps I indulged too much with retail therapy this season. Still, drinking coffee and listening to Maisha is certainly a vibe.
Today I'm paying homage to Rivergate Mall which will soon be demolished and repurposed for something new. Another relic gone.
I've been up for a while, but I can't wait to hear the patter of feet and the shouts of joy when they see the tree.
There are two axioms for a ten hour car ride that will always remain: 1) a steady diet of terrible food (i.e., sausage McGriddles); 2) misery.
Staring out the window. Twiddling a plastic bottle cap between my fingers. Feeling abjectly alone.
In a Lonely Place may be the best film I see this year.
Here listening to Watertown, wondering why these maudlin things speak to me. Sun's coming out and everyone's sick now.
My wife, daughter, and I saw a traveling Broadway performance yesterday afternoon. I'm simply amazed at the talent of some people. Artistry in whatever form is our crowning achievement as a species.
I thought I lost my Casio W800H, but it was inside a box of Legos. Crisis averted.
Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of Shenmue. That's when gaming peaked, and we've been on a steady downward trajectory since.
Playing "It Must Be Santa" by Mitch Miller. It's only October, for Chrissake.
There's a relative peace this morning. Dark clouds and a cool breeze. I may write, or I may do nothing.
Man, the Porta Pros and all their muddiness treat my ear well compared to those ear-tugging KSC75s. I will say that the sound stage for the 75s is nice. Just a little too trebly and sibilant for my tastes.
My copy of The New American Splendor Anthology has some heavy ink-bleed in those speech balloons. Still, Harvey Pekar was something else.
Today begins a true week of rest. Now that the house is "to the bones" again, I wonder if we'll be in before Christmas.
Wishful thinking but perhaps possible.
I find myself thinking of yesterday's anesthesia, the immediate and swirling blackness and loss of time. A strange sensation that could be compared to death, rebirth, and reconstitution. Regardless, today I am still recovering.
It's cooler than usual. I should walk about. If only I could manifest the energy to leave this chair.
Parainfluenza.
Everyone's asleep except for me. I fear that I'm getting sick.
Maybe coffee is the remedy, at least temporarily.
There are touches of autumn now: crisp air and yellowing leaves. A general malaise as I stare at hay rolls from the window.
Lightning, power outages, restless night
Sundays always have this palpable tension that I've never been able to shake. I look up and the day is gone.
Okay. I can finally breathe, but my back is out.
Such is the aging process: an ebb and flow of pain tolerances.
the day before is always bittersweet
Pantprazole sodium and coffee. Quite the combination. I hope to stop clearing my throat one day.
Up in the ER. Still as cold as ever.
Thinking about cabinets. Green cabinets.
One cup down. Thunder boomed last night waking all.
Serial Experiments Lain on a tiny laptop. My son resting on my chest.
A new, humid day much like the last.
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