
I've decided to keep trying this writing approach. Sort of a Marc Maron, stream-of-consciousness, top of mind monologue of anything goes in under an hour.
There's something about letting the subconscious take over that's become more appealing to me now. Fingers on home row until something comes out.
60 minutes left.
The ankle injury is healing, though slowly. The ortho said I had a stress-reaction, which is a precursor to a stress fracture. Which means my marathon plans are in the toilet and I may have to wear a boot. God, I hope not. Until it heals fully, it's the bike for me.
I got my son a passport. Mostly because his expired and it's likely we'll take a trip somewhere over the next ten years. But also because I feel better knowing he has an out in case things get real bad here in the land of the free. He lives just north of Springfield, OH, as it were. Ground zero for the latest outrage du jour for those following the news (see "dopamine loop" below).
The completist/tism in me made a Spotify playlist with every 4AD release in chronological order organized by year. I'm currently listening to the way Ivo Watts-Russell heard 1987.
Related, we're seeing Thievery Corporation this month. They were a classic van-ride listen back in the early Aughts. Usually a come-down after a loud night under the lights. TC embodied the sound of a trendy coffeeshop in the year 2001, the kind with giant Macbooks with Dreamweaver installed, first gen iPods the size of an ice cream bar and people reading Choke.
45 minutes left.
I've decided to draw down the number of collabs I've been doing lately. I'm super proud of the stuff I've contributed to this year, but it's time to focus on a few KEY DELIVERABLES as the last months drain out the calendar year. Some photography, some design, more solo music. Time to feed the beast.
Mercury is apparently not in retrograde but all my appliances seem to suggest otherwise. Replaced a dishwasher already. The fridge leaks and the AC makes a weird buzzing noise. Internet is spotty at t-t-t-times. Have mercy, ye gods.
Falling back into a phone-dopamine loop. Sometimes I rue the day I bought it.
Why do old people talk so loud in the morning?
30 minutes left.
Sidetracked watching Phantom Regiment's 2024 show.
Went through my clothes in the dresser and I'm thinking of having an aging punk garage sale. Lots of Johnny Thunders, Lethal Amounts and various and sundry crusty d-beat shirts. I'd even throw in a tweed flatcap to interested buyers. Goes great with a chipped shoulder and a pair of crossed arms at the back of the club.
Soap is my new obsession. My bathroom is stocked with African black soap, Aleppo soap, Nablus soap and giant bricks of savon de Marseille. I went round the world once, but now showers and restaurant row on Lafayette Road have become the international experience.
Fifteen minutes.
At least four people have died in my house. No murders - natural causes, all of them. Normal for a 140-year-old house, I suppose. I'm not a superstitious person, but the first dream I ever had in the house was of two people watching me sleep.
Time.
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What I’m reading: Anti-Story: The Anthology of Experimental Fiction (Philip Stevick)
What I'm listening to: Within the Realm of a Dying Sun (Dead Can Dance)
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