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midyear stocktake
watching | fate/stay night (ubw) reading | steve erickson - the sea came in at midnight listening | yonezu kenshi - shinigami playing | fgo
the summary above (correctly) shows that i am extraordinarily fatepilled, as though the previously absurd schedule of 40-hour fgo (work)weeks was not enough penance to cleanse me of this curse - idle hands are the devil's workshop, or something like that. i think those hundreds of hours have somehow coalesced into an understanding that i like the fate framework for storytelling above all else, but am yet to feel that obsessive affinity for any of the stories told so far. f/sn thoughts probably coming soon after this.
dragging my increasingly apathetic body through the muck of another year has been largely unrewarding. highlights include finally finishing spring snow (wonderful), discovering after god and at long last choosing to read medalist, and above all playing paradise killer. just one of those works i am fundamentally attuned to and wish i had made.
lately i have been using stories for escapism - stories to stave off reality, any titillation at all to prevent the cotidian from becoming overwhelming. not an admirable quality. here's to a healthier back half of the year.
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annual stocktake
(re)watching | ふしぎ遊戯 reading | ángel bonomini - the novices of lerna listening | 65daysofstatic - the conspiracy of seeds (biennial phase) playing | fgo
general thoughts on the year below the cut.
the lowdown:
read basically nothing at all except for mountains of doujinshi. literal good chance i read more japanese- than english-language content in 2024. it should perhaps come as no surprise that my weakness for books is extensible to thin books, but i'm looking to rein it in a little in the new year.
i played not a great deal of games this year, either, all of them atlus - multiple versions of persona 3, and smtvv (which remains unfinished in light of a late-year fate takeover).
song obsession of the year probably has to go to oveido, some 16 years after first hearing it - not sure why it had me in a chokehold this year. honourable mention to the friko album (it's 2am in the morning / running 'til the dawn: it takes the breath out of me) and the entire omori ost. was a year much more focused on comfort music to survive.
a lot of media passed before my eyes in 2024 but i'm not sure i'll carry too much of it with me. the blue lock thing happened, might be on its way out. flew on passenger aircraft again. ate a frog cake. bought too many material things to try and stave off the existential dread. ate noodles, ate kueh, wore a cork hat on an island beach. prayed the void would take me. prayed the void wouldn't take me. a very difficult year for various reasons but probably one i am largely best off forgetting in the grand passage of existence.
i keep thinking of the phrase "a time of gifts" stripped of its macneice and leigh fermor contexts. i don't know what this means. there are things that will need to change, and i with them.
there is much to be done. good luck to us all in 2025.
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we are all kasuyas living our stupid little lives on our stupid borrowed time
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reset
watching | 獄・さよなら絶望先生 reading | into your arms: nick cave's songs reimagined listening | the smile - wall of eyes playing | no man's sky
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A good line is a good line. A good line well placed is an experience. That was the goal: an experience, a larger unit, enough space to move, to hold propulsions, to let the intentionally unsaid things shimmer in the highly charged spaces between the lines. I crafted poems — units made out of lines placed in a specific order — and the poems have disappeared. My loveseats have been broken into chairs, into matchsticks.
So how do we respect an original work while we aggregate around it? I was speaking with a friend the other night, and she said her favorite line of mine was “I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his sweater for the longest time.” But that’s not the line. I wrote the word jacket, not sweater. A very different connotation — and connotation is important in poetry — because jacket can be considered as a thicker skin (among other things) in a way that sweater cannot. She was being sloppy, but still — words matter or they don’t. If they matter, don’t change them. If they don’t, then why bother praising the line?
Each modification dilutes. Each distortion cheapens the work, cripples it, erases it. Whether it’s done in sloppiness, or out of a desire to claim and internalize the work, or with intentional malice, it still amounts to a falsification. We have to be careful, when we build around an existing work, that we don’t ruin it.
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