Today I finished the fourth movement for my suite for turntables and piano (coincidentally, but satisfying).
I’m terrified of 2022 elections and gerrymandering. We’re fucked.
I’m about to take a three month sabbatical from work. I am infinitely lucky I have the ability to do that.
Lisa is in Miami for a fooooot-ball game with Danice.
I’m at the start (~250 of 1,200) of Pynchon’s Against the Day (which I invariably translate to Gegen des Tages though I’m sure that’s nonsense-talk) whereas I started it a decade-or-so-ago and got ~300 pages in but stopped for some reason. I have an ever-expanding document of notes with character names and key events. It helps.
I’ve been back into Duolingo. Maybe it’ll take? I love those characters.
(Lily is a fucking bitch, though.)
I’m proud of what I’ve composed (this year I finished the symphony and string quartet), but have shame that I can no longer play what I had been able to. I use to be able to play an hour of my music, relatively cleanly and from memory; now I don’t play piano at all. I do have plans to ignore the deficiencies of hand dystonia and start playing again next year (this year (timestamp)).
We have made the condo much better this year. New bookshelves; new hallway lighting. Maybe even better next year. That makes me feel like an adult?
I created an @sstradermusic account in order to firewall my composer self from my personal Twitter and have new acquaintances (of a sort), but also gods-among-men individuals who I’m terrified of interacting with.
I bought some really cool artwork.
This is me tonight. I am 2021:
