I Guess We’re Doing 2023 Now

Hello Darling Ones,

I can’t remember which Westernerd put Marah’s “Why Independent Record Stores Fail” on a Mix CD for me, but it is a song that went straight to my heart the moment I heard it.

This was also the song playing on a loop in my head the past two days as I got a head-start on my 2023 intentions by moving my records from the dining room into the living room.

If you don’t know the song it starts with the line, “watch you run your bony fingers through my 45s. . .” I’m kinda glad it was that song bouncing around my noggin and not that scene from “High Fidelity.”

While he was here, my brother-in-law hung the Portal to Doom on the wall, and I must say it looks much less doomy nestled amongst all the other crap.

My goal for 2023 is simple, I want to lighten my load. This means a lot of vague things at the moment. It includes lightening my load physically (move my body more) and emotionally (get rid of old crap that’s weighing me down) and mentally (work on being a little kinder to myself).

The great record migration fits into this whole scheme in ways that make sense to me, but is convoluted to explain.

I also want to buy less stuff (aside from records, because I put them all in the TV stand and there’s room for more. Plus, I got a record rack for Christmas and it is empty, so obvs. Feel free to give me records for any reason and all occasions).

So, I’m keeping it simple for 2023. I did not do well on all my lofty ambitions for 2022.

As much as I’d like to hold myself accountable, 2022 was rough, man. There was the COVID and then all the dying. . . Jodi Hanson’s mom in August, my dad in September, my Uncle Danny in October, and Betty in December.

Typing all that out kind of amazes me. That’s a lot of people to lose in a short span of time. How did I survive so much loss? My heart is one resilient motherfucker.

Anyway, I’m easing my way into 2023 in hopes it will be a little kinder to me and mine. I’ve spent the day re-reading The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai, listening to Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism” (which rudely turns 20 this year), and napping. There’s pizza in the very near future and another entire day off tomorrow.

I think we can do 2023, Darling Ones.


P.S. I am 100% convinced that I will have COVID by the end of the week just because I got it last year after the holidays. My brain weasels refuse to accept any logic or recognize how I did not get it from Sister #4 or my mom even though I was with each of them the day before they tested positive.

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