The year that was until it wasn’t
I’m a day late in writing this as my body and mind have finally been nursed back to stability following the marathon day of new year’s eve. The horned frogs are in the national championship—what a time to be alive.
The last year of my 20’s was arguably the best of the decade. Approaching this arbitrary milestone of 30 isn’t a frightful notion, though it’s strange to consider that my sophomore year in high school was half my life ago. As I write this, I’m sitting in a Sublime t-shirt I bought that year: at this point, it could almost be an heirloom. I tell myself that age has made me an effective (not necessarily better) decision-maker. This is rooted in looking out for myself, focusing on what keeps me healthy and makes me happy, and not getting caught up in the superficial—like worrying about what the cashier at the grocery store thinks of my ratty Sublime shirt, sweat pants, and bedhead.
I am fortunate to surround myself with people who embrace me for being me. What this says about their decision-making is a separate discussion. This year has served as a wonderful reminder that friends and the memories I forge with them are immensely precious. As I reflect on my brief stint struttin’ on this earth, I think what I want most in life is to be known by the quality of my friends. All of you people shape who I am and for that I am grateful.
Below you’ll find the usual menagerie of musings from the year: a favorite poem, by the numbers, a reading list, a movie list, and some quotes and notes.
“My plans for the past” by Sam Willetts
I often regret the time i’ve devoted
to regret: thereby sustainably rewasting wasted
time time and again. A psychiatrist
with glinting specs once said I had Tourette’s–
just because I told him I can’t help but curse
aloud over old shames, hurts, failures
and the rest. Tourette my feckin arse
(i said); I swear like that because it hurts;
because, although I try and try my best,
I’ve yet to find a way to change the past–
you know, to saw sawdust.
to get
the smoke back
in the cigarettes.
By The Numbers
48,278 minutes of music listened to
81 movies watched
28 books read
174.8 hours spent walking
600.2 miles biked
432 total beers consumed
Assuming an average of 14oz per beer (splitting the difference between a standard can/bottle and a pint), this means I consumed 6,048oz of beer. A standard half-barrel keg is 1,984oz. This means I drank 3.05 kegs of beer. Woof.
674 poops pooped
This was the top request to track when I took an audience poll after last year’s summary. I’m just giving the people what they want so don’t fault me for serving the masses. Google tells me the weight of human feces ranges from 0.25 to 1.0 lbs. Assuming an average of 0.6 lbs, my annual output was 404.4 lbs—or proof that I’m full of shit.
Reading List
Recommendations: The Power Broker (non-fiction), A Coney Island of the Mind (poetry), The Hail Mary Project (fiction)
Ariely, Dan Predictably Irrational
Caldini, Robert Influence: Science and Practice
*Caro, Robert The Power Broker
Cunningham, Jennifer Two Months
Eichar, Donnie Dead Mountain
*Ferlinghetti, Lawrence A Coney Island of the Mind
Hayek, Friedrich The Road to Serfdom
King, Stephen Duma Key
King, Stephen Bag of Bones
Kolhatkar, Sheelah Black Edge
Krakauer, Jon Eiger Dreams
Larsen, Erik Dead Wake
Larsen, Erik Devil in the White City
Lewis, Michael The Undoing Project
McCarthy, Cormac No Country for Old Men
McCarthy, Cormac The Passenger
McCarthy, Cormac Stella Maris
Mclean, Bethany All the Devils are Here: The Hidden History of the Financial Crisis
Murakami, Haruki The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Murakami, Haruki Kafka on the Shore
Schwab, V.E. The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue
Uris, Leon Exodus
Voltaire Candide
Vonnegut, Kurt Galapagos
*Weir, Andy The Hail Mary Project
Weir, Andy The Martian
White, Andrew Dickson Fiat Money and Inflation in France
Wright, Lawrence The Looming Tower
Movies
Recommendations: Altered States, Zardoz, Triangle of Sadness, Fire of Love
Quotes & Notes
“Have We Forgotten How to Read Critically?” by Kate Harding
Today, the author is not dead until the author is actually dead. In the meantime, every published piece of writing is treated as the beginning of a conversation–or worse, a workshop piece–by some readers, each of whom feels entitled to a bespoke response.
Reading better, thinking better, is quite literally a matter of survival in the time of Covid and climate change, in these days when we’re reflecting on the first anniversary of disinformation-powered insurrectionists breaching the US Capitol. It’s no longer enough to see a headline, feel a feeling, go off. We have to ask more questions, of ourselves and our sources, starting with that fundamental one: does this make any fucking sense at all?
“The Case Against the Trauma Plot” by Parul Sehgal
The claim that trauma’s imprint is a timeless feature of our species, that it etches itself on the human brain in a distinct way, ignores how trauma has been evolving since the days of railway spine; traumatic flashbacks were reported only after the invention of film. Are the words that come to our lips when we speak of our suffering ever purely our own?
The trauma plot flattens, distorts, reduces character to symptom, and, in turn, instructs and insists upon its moral authority. The solace of its simplicity comes at no little cost. It disregards what we know and asks that we forget it, too–forget about the pleasures of not knowing, about the unscripted dimensions of suffering, about the odd angularities of personality, and, above all, about the allure of necessity of a well-placed sea urchin.
The Revolt of the Public by Martin Gurri
Pre digital era–a single mass audience, all-consuming the same content, as if looking into a giant mirror reflecting their own society. The digital revolution has shattered that mirror, and now the public inhabits those broken pieces of glass. The public isn’t one thing; it’s highly fragmented and basically mutual hostile.