Researching local/regional and national politics (as well as pet-project Scottish politics) and issues, overdosing on poetry, looking at a flat, looking at some study options, conversing with a best friend from years ago, listening to a handful of different Joe Rogan podcasts (Henry Rollins, Leah Remini, Louis Theroux, Lance Armstrong? Weird mix, eh? Odd that I would watch the Armstrong one since I don’t care about him, cycling or doping; that said, the podcast ended with him rambling on about Hunter S. Thompson, someone I never think about but had had a conversation about no more than two hours earlier), walking like a penguin through miles of snow and ice, dining with a part of the past, contemplating next places and steps, coming to terms with finished things (can you call them finished if they never really started or never materialized for a host of reasons?), squaring myself with or discarding the things that felt important or even life altering for all of five minutes, five days (knowing this negates, at least in some way, the way I wanted to live, love and feel as this year dawned. Circumstances change, take quick turns – really quick, sharp turns. I will live, love and feel and dive into other things.), outlining writing and other projects. Face forward and march. (OH! Why can’t it already be March?)
In the cold city, unexpectedly and spur of the moment, curled up, having tea instead of coffee and digging back into the reading (the endless Infinite Jest), writing and numbness – literal and figurative.