Resolutions are often seen as harsh trials that one is expected to overcome with unwavering commitment over the next twelve months. Weight loss, get to the gym, start a new hobby, clean that spare room that’s been lingering for half a score years. Goals placed high upon a tree that represents who and what we perceive ourselves as needing to be. They often give the impression that they’re meant to spur vast change, markers of where a clumsy path has become a refined road. They are typically encouraged by others and are occasionally scoffed at and ridiculed. It’s almost a tradition of seeing resolutions be forgotten and left behind in those young weeks of the year. Weights left to collect dust, a gym membership auto renewing with no visitation, a tree never climbed. Too lofty goals. But it need not be that way. One could set their sights lower. Branches far more reachable during a gentle stroll rather than a sweat driven hurdle and terrifying grasp upward. A task easily measured and not as heavy to cling upon.
A little resolution, as a treat.
Allow me to share my intentions first. I have been lingering in a creative drought for some time. It goes from something far smaller than the plague that has ravaged our culture, the politics trying to rip us down, or the dangers of the world at large. No, my sorrow lingers from within. A bud of little dark unease that has always been within the garden of my mind, and I occasionally have made the mistake of allowing it to feed and blossom, a mistake I have committed these past nine years. Many events have fed it, and I have documented numerous of them here and in other slices of my social presence. The whys are not important today. But the intention behind subverting the whys is.
I wanted something I could do. Small bean tasks. I had two little resolutions in mind this year. Two branches. The first, to journal as often as I could missing no more than one or two entries a week. The second, to listen to five unique albums each week for the year. A blend of new and old, with an eye towards not putting too much weight on what comes next. And, as we near the end of the first seven days of February, I am still on task. More, I have found my desire blossoming other little buds of creativity within.
Growth, unexpected, but welcome.
In My Ear
The audio project has been splendid. Not too many new albums in January, but a lot of intentional approaches to rare listens. My ideal setup was to span multiple decades each week. Themes weren’t important as much as diversifying the type of genre and style I was listening to. A great deal of soundtracks, alt rock, and mood music dotted the month, ranging from Rush’s Permanent Waves to Grant Graham’s Ghost Song OST. I tossed in good energy pieces like Incubus’s Make Yourself while feeling introspective with Jessica Curry’s Dear Esther OST. It was a lovely blend, and while there’s some albums in there that won’t join my long-term library rotations, I was happy of the listens and the revisits.
New for me this month was TLC’s Fanmail. I had heard a number of their songs from music videos but had never deep dived on the album. Their singles are great, but the deeper album has so much more energy and power in it. I wish I had picked it up when I was a teen. The same can be said for Indigo Girls’ Swamp Ophelia. Also new to me, and also something that would have meant so much more to my sense of discovery about my identity had I been exposed to it as a teen. She might have seen herself sooner. Expect both groups to show up again in future months.
Which brings me to some criticism of my list. The albums I’ve shared over on Bluesky have some issues. Namely, they’re mostly from white cis dudes. Now there’s nothing wrong with music from that community. There’s a lot of great music in there. But my selection shows my blind spots both growing up and experiencing now as an adult. I don’t have the exact numbers, mostly because I don’t have the exact identities of all of the artists working on group projects like the I Saw the TV Glow OST or every individual band member of the Protomen, but the critical eye I put towards this list is the lack of diversity in my album project meant to explore diverse albums. While the initial goal was a focus on genre, I think a lot of it needs to delve into artist identity too. I think that’ll serve me and expose my ears to far wider wonders.
At some point I’ll start talking about rankings. I’m hesitant on that, only because I’m not qualified to talk about what’s good about music. Not a musician, not an engineer, and not a professional reviewer. Just a girl who likes her vibes. When I do get around to posting things it’s strictly opinion not a quality or value judgement. So, try not to take offense if I don’t praise your favorite over your yucks.
On My Pen
Well, that’s a lie. Maybe it’s a digital pen? Hardly. Keystrokes.
The journalling has directly led to what you are reading now. It has been a golden lifeline to restoring my ability to communicate through the medium of text, of character, of roman alphabet.
Of keystrokes.
This was the heart of why I included the journaling as part of the project. The former aspect, the albums, was meant to get me in a creative headspace and to give me a task. Tasks help me find myself, as I can launch against them to track day and time and the passage of reality. But the journaling was meant to help find an arrow and the means of launching it. Commentary and reviews of my day and my perception of reality honed my ability to draw back the bending bow that is my keyboard. To launch my mind forth into realms I had thought mired and lost to mist and mud.
I wrote three jaunts of fiction in January. Two short little flash pieces; experiments in description with a character I so want to write into novel some day. The third was a five-thousand-word short story of character, voice, and sensory presence. Mild erotica and far from publishable, but still a creative project that tapped into a part of me I thought long dormant. These were not planned, they were not demanded, but merely I was open to their experience. They bring me great joy because beyond them, beyond the small journal entries, beyond the little snippets on social media, here, this entry, is the first large scale writing project I’ve worked on in some time. Certainly the first of this year. To know my heart and keyboard are wanting to find the words again fills me with joy.
And I am ecstatic.
This resolution is shining. Topics in the journal aren’t always in depth. They’re light pokes at my day to day and reviews of how I’m doing with things, and that’s what a journal is meant to be. I’m not editing them much as I am editing this. They’re not meant for consumption beyond me and maybe some future archivist who doesn’t have anything better to do with their time. They’re imperfect, not to say this is perfect. But they’re meant to be the easy branch. The branch I can grab while I’m walking past and still feel like I’m working on the tree.
Sparks to Come
With the resolutions spurring me on, I’ve entered February with more hope than I expected. Especially in spite of the horror show happening out there in the world. My personal projects and goals are pushing ahead in a way that is keeping me from becoming buried under a growing despair. With that, I consign myself to new possibilities in the future. New Resolutions. Branches a little higher up, with intention. And February, four beautiful weeks long, is perfect for these twinned goals
The first is this, as you’re reading. Two posts upon the blog. Specifically, the casual-not-business blog. The writing site may see activity in the future, but no such trip has been planned yet. These words are meant as an expansion upon the journaling and is meant to take advantage of rediscovering my preferred voice. She speaks best in fonts.
The second is the reclamation of my other voice. The verbal one. While my sound is not ideal for my identity, it is still my sound and thus I need return to cast my words abound. To podcast again, twice this month. And much like the blogging, I shall return here in the casual-not-business podcast. As these entries exist in the future and I cannot delight myself with their listening unlike the words in this document; I can only pretend upon their success. And I shall. I am confident in my ability to return to that lovely medium. I miss it.
And like the journalling, I hope it is a launching point to something far greater. You see, as I write this, as I make my project plans for the month, as I dream of words and worlds I have not yet visited, I think about the two dreams I sorely miss. I think about the novels I want to plan. I think about the streams I miss sharing. I think about the creative spark I know I have within and that I enjoy so much in its sharing. But no plans yet. Nothing written, nothing guiding. Just building a foundation.
And so, that is February. To both continue on with the low branches, to journal and listen to a multitude of albums. To craft and share twin blogs and twin podcasts, a quartet of intention.
Imperfect, but climbing.
Ever higher.
