Toppling the shipping containers to form a guest room.

i like the idea of making new year's resolutions throughout the year, even if they mean they'll save your life, but shrugging your shoulders and hoping you'll make it to the new year to utilize them.

while writing these thoughts and feelings and blurbs and blabs about the records that i loved in 2019, i keep thinking, "maybe i should dedicate myself more to this writing about music thing, maybe i should start posting at least once every two weeks. even a little playlist. even a couple albums i'm excited about. a song i rediscovered." i think about how even if no one reads it, writing about this is almost the happiest and most functioning version of myself that continues to ride forth. 

but i also think, "why am i even writing this, the BEST of the BEST [for me]?" i should write my favorite albums on a piece of notebook paper in length order and take a picture and post it on instagram and let the lack of likes make me feel unwelcome in the New World.

how do both of these things exist?

I think it's because the weight of either of them won't topple the boat, won't shake the island, won't wake the beast, won't swoon the maiden either way.

it doesn't matter.

Also,

there is the matter of

holy shit, can you believe that statement:

"there is the matter of"

____,

______________________

the poetry I wrote over the course of the year, the Pennies In the Fountain; I wrote a "collection of poetry" to "release" to friends and the entire world as well.  -- When you're reading poetry you almost have to role play someone who gives a shit and who's feeling it, not the other way around. You can't go into it thinking about, say, "Will Taylor Hall's trade to the Coyotes yield personal results and/or a run for the post season?" and then catch a stanza (jesus) and be moved to pause. You have to suspend your callousness, enhance your sense of wonder,  like seeing who can hold their breath under water the longest. Allow yourself.

Also, what the fuck, man,

I sent out a 60+ page story to four people and heard nothing back. 

Then I went back

and tried to finish it.

Like: 

"Hey, the people you chose specifically because you believed they'd give you honest feedback and spend time with the thing you did did not spend time on it. KEEP GOING."

Forgive it, man.  

Autonomous structure collapse, reanimated in organic posture.

What do people do every day? 

What do people do in their free time?

Like, 

>> what are you supposed to answer when someone asks "what have you been up to?"

Uhhh,

* Stressing and catching up with every record that comes out to make sure my Top 50 not only represents me very well, but also if enriching to listen to, write about, but also read about? 

* Working while imagining myself at home doing fulfilling things

* Reading a 59 page run of words that I call a novel in progress that I started working on in 2015 and power-fantasizing about me finishing it

* Hockey has been important to me

So much of the stuff that I genuinely enjoy has nothing to do with the people or the world around me.

My bad.

Eschaton in b flat, hell portioned out in locrian mode

I find such a strange multifibered existence brought into focus when I examine the many realities I'm trying to meld in any given instance.

FOR 

EXAMPLE:

Trying to listen to an album called Occulting Disk by a guy who uses a self-invented instrument called the AudioVirus, attempting to visualize a screaming asteroid or comet that's not heading towards any planet along any particular vector and burning up, imagining these sounds as proof that we are conduits and not simply consciousness(es), letting the sounds shape my thought as winds shape mesas

WHEN
SUDDENLY:

Son wants to tell me about how he and his friend are killing other kids in video games

AND
THEN:

She Facetimes and tells me about how she's feeling sick and wants to see the dog .

--
I sometimes feel so much more at home,
                                         more appropriate when I'm left alone to these weird devices, escaping what other people who are let into my life are able to glean or affect or effect or impress on me.

How do you learn to let that go

and 

should you or 

should I just continue to compartmentalize

the savage

and

the scholar

and

the statistic?

Ya don't,

MAN.

You stay immiscibly hovering in the varying definitions, 

equally distant and connected to the varying frequencies, 

glowing in a light that radiates one wavelength when you're alone

glowing in a light that radiates one wavelength when you're not.

It's fine.