Still hyperfixating on Japanese ambient music, poetry and dreamy percussion, and Kita Kouhei’s tiny sketches.
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The First Week of January: A List
My husband and I don’t speak at midnight. Three little words could be prophecy or jinx, and after 2024, we’re not taking the risk. We sit on the couch, scroll through instagram and return a few texts before switching off the television and climbing into bed. He falls asleep without effort. I listen to the fizz and crackle of fireworks in a distant park, then rain.
I dream I am stitching teddy bears together, stuffing little poems inside their heads on tiny squares of paper before sewing the fabric closed. They lay still while I work—the clumsy surgeon and her calico skulls; brains full of stuffing and songs.
On the first morning of the year, I run my astrological chart, make note of the transiting planets and angles and write them in my diary. Forewarned, forearmed, cautioned Miguel de Cervantes. To be prepared is half the victory. I do this, even though I know that interpretation belongs to the past, not the future. The last five years have been brimming with astrological landmines—I at least want to know what I’m in for. Fewer, in 2025. That’s something. Unfortunately one of them is my Saturn opposition, welp.
Resolution-averse, I make a list and label it Away From/Toward - a useful tool imparted by my ACT therapist five years ago. My favourite one? Moving away from mastery, toward experimentation. Welcome to my 2025 soapbox.
Buckle up.
I finally removed my Apple watch. We 80s kids waited generations for this kind of tech to be developed, but lately, it hasn’t made me feel productive, just shackled. My wrist looks naked without its titanium band—a part of my skin that hasn’t seen sun for 5 years, which seems odd, now I think about it.
I find an old note on my phone that says Love yourself. Unless you have a better idea.
Determined to purchase fewer new things in 2025, we find a second-hand outdoor setting, which just needs a good sand/scrub and re-oil. At Bunnings, Haku zig-zags the aisles, tugging on his leash, sniffing the displays. I peruse the discount plant trolley, looking for something to save. I return home with an armful of herbs and a three-dollar begonia.
After half an hour of repotting, I position the pots in the sun by the olive tree. Watering with a can is somehow cozier, and I tip and shower with just the right amount. It is an act of love. Stephen sands and oils the table, standing back every few strokes to observe his handiwork. For the first time since we moved, we are making a home. The sage seedlings stretch tall and proud in the sun.
Lately I have become enamoured of Japanese ambient music, listening to one particular album on repeat over the course of a day. I read online that the artist has struggled with depression and despises mediocrity and I decide that we are kindred. Standing on my balcony, I’m hit with a sudden desire to make field recordings; I want to drop microphones into the water and listen to pond songs, catalogue each currawong and butcher bird in the forest, the jangle of windchimes in the breeze. It occurs to me that the wind doesn’t care what note it plays, and this is the energy I am bringing into 2025. Between the persistent clack of bamboo poles, I hear a voice say, make what nurtures you. I scrawl this on a note and press it onto the fridge. Maybe my higher self has come to visit, after all.
Why yes, this is my backyard. I finally sell my daughter’s formal dress, after eight years of carrying it around from house to house, across state lines and back again, storing it in the guest room closet, next to my wedding gown. Those dresses were old friends. I watch as a teenage girl walks to the family car; a triumphant pile of red silk and black tulle and sequins spilling out of her arms, while her mother transfers money on her phone. I return to the bedroom, close the closet door softly and just sit. I can’t bear the emptiness.
It’s okay to be sad, reads the text from my daughter. I can’t work out whether she has developed this wisdom because of, or in spite of me.
On YouTube, a productivity expert draws two ships on a blank page, scribbling choppy waves between them. Underneath the waves, he scrawls in capital letters: DRAGONS. Eighty percent of these, he says as he writes, are in your head. I think about my therapist’s story about the demons on the ship and how during the pandemic, those of us whose vessels were finally making headway, were suddenly descended upon en masse by different ones—new breeds, hybrids, types we had never seen before, adding exponential layers of grief to process and literal years to our recovery. I know, I know...talking about the pandemic is so passé. Shouldn’t we be over it? How long does collective trauma take to heal? I open to a fresh page and write a list of things that nurture me. May 2025 be the year we all stop letting our demons take the damn wheel.
Tiny Smudges of Joy This Week
Buying local honey from a roadside stall is such a simple pleasure. It costs less than store-bought, and tastes better too (I wonder why) plus we get to support local beekeepers. We are so lucky to live in an area where we can buy produce direct from surrounding farms and it’s something I want to do more of in 2025.
I can’t stop listening to this track by Veda (formerly Storia). Her vocals are like a warm hug, and her self-accompaniment on the Hang blows my mind. Honestly, chills.
Two books: Let Them Theory (Mel Robbins) and The Third Perspective (Africa Brooke) - absolutely essential reading if you’re a human who has to navigate human relationships and online spaces right now.
I can’t get enough of this quinoa and broccoli spoon salad.
This Aphex Twin dance meditation is so mesmerising and lovely to watch.
The Ghosts in the Machine - Spotify’s plot against musicians is a sobering read. Not so much a smudge of joy, it is apparently a terrible time for a mid-life switch to being a neoclassical/ambient musician - but - I love that we’re having much needed conversations around the perceived value of art/artists. I really do believe that a revolution is coming, and I’m there for it.
Speaking of revolution - Amie McNee’s recent declaration that she didn’t want a conventional job because (and I quote). “I have very little tolerance for a certain type of suffering” sent ripples out into the instagram community. Mostly of relief. Go read her essay (and subscribe to her Substack).
Here’s how to curate a better instagram experience, instead of mindlessly scrolling through tons of random and sponsored posts. You’re welcome.
I’m hoping to create some more intentional posts soon, trying out a new format, perhaps with a few creative experiments, thrown in for good measure. I’m trying not to overthink it, but with luck, I’ll be back in a few weeks with something a little different.
Until then…
Love yourselves, unless you have a better idea.
xx