January 4. Practicing this-and-that-many minutes a day. But what for? I want to go to places I haven’t been before. Which I did not know existed, or would be possible for me to reach. Places I did not set out for. I want to get lost in unimaginable landscapes. I want to be able to do that with someone.

January 3. There is too little data to predict how old one usually gets with my disease. But there is, of course, an organization for it, and a forum of people affected by the disease where such data is compiled. A surprisingly obvious, surprisingly necessary form of “writing down what no one else would write down.”

January 2. Reviewing a few technology concerns from Germany. J stunned, angry. How can you spend time with that? – Ran. Achilles tendon is barely noticeable, just have to be careful not to overdo it again too quickly. – Played music together for a few hours. Learned how the loop device works. Played a two-handed piano piece, first through headphones, and finally so that J. could hear it. Nano progress.

January 1. J recommended me an essay on functional harmony, which I devoured like rarely anything. Then I played along with it and was completely perplexed. For the first time I know where the chords want to go. It’s like I’ve been given wings.

December 31. Realizing that it’s more effective to practice ten minutes every day than two hours once a week. Given the many places where I’m learning – note reading, music theory, dexterity – I might need a coach, similar to running.

December 30. Finished reading Evolutionary Psychology. I don’t think the bell curves are the truth, a truth escaped by those who live at the edges. The bell curves are forces. Some of them you consent to, others you don’t. You try finding your way in between those forces.

December 29. I could almost find myself making New Year’s resolutions simply to increase throughput. Not to accomplish one thing that would otherwise be unattainable, but many, none of which, in and of themselves, I doubt.

December 28. One of my tiktoks has been watched five hundred times. And now I’m trying to repeat it. But I can’t. The music turns away from me in a huff, my play is contrived and fake. How does that work – setting up the camera, choosing the clothes, and then playing as if it were for the first time. As if you’d never heard that you’re good, and you couldn’t believe it any more than back then.

December 27. Back in Manhattan.

December 26. Time for MRIs. For J, the first in six years; for me, the first in two. We watch our bodies malform and fail. The time frames are unclear. Medicine’s race with our diseases. We don’t know how much we have left.