By Lucy

I meant to include something in my last post about following the path Raureka forged over the mountains, changing the balance of power amongst the Maori for 200 years. What I didn’t realize, although it’s obvious in hindsight, is that Arthur’s Pass wasn’t the original trail she blazed. It’s too steep to be a good pass for a pre-industrial society. I researched it, and the actual path she took was up the Hokitika river, to a lake called Whakareka or Lake Browning, and then down the Wilberforce river to where it meets the Rakaia, next to Lake Coleridge. So my view from Peak Hill was the closest I’ve been to her trail. I’m surprised the plaques on Peak Hill didn’t mention it! I feel the desire to hike it again, my spiritual connection to this long-dead woman. That streak of madness that drives us to find out what’s beyond the horizon.

Page link for original image source; In the steps of Raureka | New Zealand Geographic

Tuesday Simonetta was off to Christchurch. We hadn’t had any guests for a couple of days, so I caught up on some of the weeding. Cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor, let the chickens out.

It was a brutally hot day out. This whole week was supposed to be in the late twenties, and sunny. Fortunately, it was cloudy until noon. Fresh tattoos can’t be exposed to sun, and you also can’t put sunscreen on them, which leaves an exciting catch-22 if you want to do anything outside on a hot day. Since it was cloudy, I could tolerate the sleeves being down.

Still, I didn’t like the weather. In Canada, this would be wildfire weather.

With lunch, I grabbed some of Jan’s leftover kiwifruit. I’ve learned that you can eat the skin, which is much easier than trying to peel them. I’ve noticed the kiwis here have less of an astringent, zappy mouthfeel. Maybe it’s cuz they’re fresh? They’re quite delightful to just eat out of hand, like an apple!

I worked ’til 3, when the sun goes behind my cabin and the bike is in shade. Then I worked on the bike again. Someone in the group had sent me a video for how to test if the spark plug still sparks, so I tested it. Seems fine. Tried starting up the bike with the air intake all the way open. It actually started up when I twisted the throttle, held for a few moments, then sputtered and died again.

Ok, so definitely something blocking the intake or fuel injector. What I should do is pop the carb off, drain it, and give it a thorough clean, but I do not have the tools to do that there. Possibly Gary does, in the tool truck that won’t be back ’til Friday. Rats.

For dinner Simo brought home take-away, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit I scarfed it down. I appreciate all the home cooked meals, but some days you just want some greasy take-out. Plus, she should make the most of having a break from cooking.

I’ve started getting up at 7 or earlier. I know, in Thunder Bay I was getting up at 6 or even 5, but since Simo doesn’t have dinner on the table ’til 7:30 (or, more often, 8) and I don’t want to go to bed right after eating a heavy meal, it pushes back how late I stay up. With Gary gone and these odd eating times I can go to bed early. Also, it has been far too hot this week to start at 9, especially with how often it’s full sun. I can’t believe it’s gone from needing a fire at night to too hot to work within the space of a week!

I’ve been drinking lots of milk. I’m not really much of a milk drinker, not that I have a problem with it, it’s just expensive and a lot of calories for no real reason. Just like how you get more potassium from potatoes than bananas, you’d get more calcium from broccoli than milk, but that isn’t as sexy. But Simo bought a bunch of milk for the boys that says it expired November 23rd (gulp), and also my only other option is water. And it does have more potassium and calcium than water, so.

On Wednesday I took Ethan’s truck and drove to the motorcycle shop in Glentunnel. I was hoping they’d have a bottle of some carb cleaner for 20 bucks that I could pour in the gas tank, siphon off a bit of gas, and rev the bike to circulate it and blow the blockage out. It’s not ideal but I have to have the bike serviced in January anyway, it’s mandatory in New Zealand, so I only have to make it that long. The shop didn’t have anything for sale, but the lady went to the back and got the mechanic.

I explained the situation to him. As he visibly fought back laughter, he agreed with my diagnosis and offered to clean the carb for 200 bucks.

Hmm… more than I wanted to spend, but peace of mind that a mechanic looked at it before a long drive?

“I can’t bring it here.” I pointed out.

“Hmm.. Where are you located?”

“The estate.”

He smiled. “I’ve been up there a few times. I’ve gotta pick up a tractor near there tomorrow night, I can swing by and grab it? For free.”

“Oh, thank you!” It’s still 200 dollars I didn’t have to spend if not my own stupid mistake, but it could be worse.

It also doesn’t help that my car broke down in Canada at the same time. The battery was leaking! I changed it myself in 2021, but sometimes you just get a dud. I had a heart attack when they sent me the bill: 300 for the battery, 150 for the tow, and 150 for the labour! When I changed the battery last, it cost me 200 for the battery from Costco, but I guess that’s the price of… this. Still, what a kick in the teeth just before I head out on the most expensive part of my tour!

I went back home. “The motorcycle guy says he’s been here before?”

“Oh yes, he’s worked on the lawn mower, the side-by-side, Cooper’s dirt bike…”

Thick black clouds moved overhead without releasing anything. It sounded like thunder in the distance: Simonetta said it’s the sound of the wind roaring down the Rakaia gorge.

For dinner she made a creamy pasta sauce with fresh asparagus, smoked salmon and fusilli col buco. “This is special pasta, I don’t make it often.”

My tummy appreciates it!

The guests wanted breakfast at 7 in the morning, poor Simo. I asked her if she wanted me to wait until the guests left before starting work, as the next spot to be tackled is in full view of the dining room. “Oh no, it looks good if you’re out there gardening! Like we have staff.” She says, with a mischievous grin and wink.

After the guests left, we had no one booked in for the next couple of days, so it would be just me, her and Luigi.

“I miss Earl.” I said.

“I miss Earl too.” Simo agreed.

We spent the morning cutting down elderberries. Perish the thought! She hadn’t planted them and they were crowding the azaleas, but I prefer the elders. Still, not my property. We also cut down a plum tree that the birds had planted, covered in green plums. I gathered them up and put them in a bowl inside my cabin, in case they ripened within the next week.

As we were elbow-deep in azaleas, taking turns cutting thru the thick trunk of something she called a five-finger with a little pruning saw, I laughed. “I thought you said we’d have an easy day today!”

“I meant we didn’t have to deal with guests!” She huffed. “That’s an easy day for me!”

Fair.

For dinner, she made something she said is a common dish in Italy during asparagus season. It was an English muffin (presumably standing in for something else), two poached eggs with runny yokes, and asparagus on a bed of grated parmesan and olive oil. I put the eggs on my muffins and ate them like an eggs Benedict, and scooped up the parmesan with the asparagus. I asked if it would be rude if I grabbed another slice to mop up the yoke and olive oil left on the plate, and she told me in Italy it would be rude not to.

I hung around after dinner, talking to and counselling her. No offers had come in. Another property of a similar style had come onto the market, but it was “modernized”, IE they had painted the inside beige and white and boring and dull. Still, only one person could buy it, and then everyone else would have to look here again. Not great to be second best, but then apparently no one has an appreciation for the original Rimu paneling, their loss!

She’s got woofers coming in the day I leave, and staying for the week until Simo and Gary go away to Lake Tekapo for a couple of weeks, so at least I could leave knowing they’d be taken care for three weeks of my absence.

Finally, as the sun was slipping below the mountains, the motorcycle guy showed up. He tried turning the bike on and reached under it to fiddle with something. “Well, it doesn’t sound that bad. Probably just nervous, right?”

Hur hur, women bikers. If you weren’t doing me a favour, I’d swear. “Well, I am planning on taking it to Queenstown next weekend.” I said sweetly.

That wiped the grin off his face. I have never seen anyone give me a more incredulous look. “To Queenstown on this? Does it even do 100?”

“Yes, it can and I have.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You could probably even get 110 out of it with a bit of modification.” 110 was only barely within the redline.

“Okay then…” He loaded the bike onto the trailer. “Give me a call tomorrow at noon?”

“Sounds good.”

And then he took my baby away.

My comment that it was like wildfire weather turned unintentionally prophetic. Between Castle Hill and Bridge Hill is an out-of-control wildfire, Simo thinks was started by a tourist throwing a cigarette butt out the window of their car into the long grass. The road from Springfield onwards was closed for days, so just as well I followed my gut and went last weekend. It tripled overnight to 100 hectares, which is cute for Canadian standards, but then the south island is maybe the size of Lake Superior, so it’s a large amount. You can’t quite smell the smoke, the wind doesn’t go this way, but if you look to the north the mountains and foothills are shrouded in haze. Simo is confident the fire won’t move this way, but I am not so sure. It’s barely 40 kilometers away as the crow flies, and there’s lots of dry grassland between here and there, with the gale-force winds to whip the fire up.

Friday morning was confusingly cool. Maybe they would get the fire under control. It was supposed to rain all weekend.

We had another dead chicken, from the middle pen, 6 within a month. After I cleaned it up, fed and waters the chickens, I noticed buzzards flying above the pond. A possum fell in and drowned, so I had to fish it out and dispose of it. Couldn’t have a guest decide to walk the grounds and notice the body.

Another day of hardcore gardening, cutting down unwanted plum trees and elders, giant spiky blackberry vines, and deadly nightshade, and then tying the felled trees to the back of the side-by-side and driving it out into the bush. Today I could technically brave the sun, but I’d rather not. My tattoo had entered the “itchy and peeling” portion of healing.

Me and Simo found a five-finger being strangled by a vine. Not that we cared, cuz we cut it down anyway, but we found a section that was perfect twisted, like a wizards wand. It gave me an idea; maybe I could intentionally do the same with some fast growing soft-wood in Canada! Kevin says it’s called pleaching.

I got bored of cereal. I asked Simo if I could have a jar of jam and she gave me a jar of something called feijoa, which I’ve never even heard of. Because I’m not good at describing tastes, Google says it tastes like strawberry mixed with guava. I find it tastes a little thick and spiced, like mince, but it’s not so bad.

I called the shop around noon; not ready yet. Shortly before 4 I called again and it was. Simo agreed to drive me to get it, and she even parked and waited to make sure I had gotten the bike back before heading out.

178 was the damage. He charged me 14 dollars for a new spark plug I’m pretty sure I didn’t need, but the guy who worked on it wasn’t the one ringing me up so I couldn’t bitch him out or ask questions. He also noted that the emission sensor needed to be fiddled with in some way, so maybe the breakage wasn’t entirely my fault.

“Are you really planning on taking this to Queenstown?”

“Yes! I plan on driving all over the island with it.”

When I went out to the bike they were closing up the shop, and the bike still wouldn’t turn on properly. The guy came over and reached under the bike; now it idled steady.

“What did you do?” I asked.

He pointed. “This is your idle screw. This way is increase the rpms, this way is down.” He smiled. “Once you’ve been all over the south island, you’ll know everything there is to know about this bike.”

Amen to that.

Wooh, but does she ride now! The idle screw also adjusts the mixture of fuel-to-air, and clearly my bike has a hunger for air. The high idle means I roll along at 20 clicks once I let off the break, and she has a lot more “get up and go” now. I practically flew home; good thing I opted to take it in instead of tinkering with it myself, I was learning.

The boys got home late, meaning dinner was delayed. They stopped to pick up Simo’s granddaughter along the way, as she was staying the weekend. While Simo and Gary took her upstairs to show her her new room, Ethan popped open a beer and chugged it.

“Gary was cranky this week.” He said, when he finally came up for air.

“Well, yeah. It was really hot here, I can only imagine how bad it was Akaroa.”

“What was wrong with the bike?”

I explained it to him. He laughed, although he also agreed the choke does not look like a choke.

“What’s the choke on your bike in Canada like?”

“Um… I don’t have a bike in Canada!”

He burst out laughing. “You don’t? You just flew here and bought a motorcycle? Do you even have a license?”

“Yes!”

“That makes so much more sense, now. Falling off the bike and stuff.”

“Yeah, it’s a mix of, I seem so much more impressive and also so much more foolish.”

“Yup.” He raised his beer in a salute.

Once everyone was seated at the table, Gary says, “Ok, let’s see this new tattoo.” I rolled up my sleeves. After a minute of staring at me blankly, he exclaims, “You paid money for that? Are you stuffed in the head?”

Stuffed in the head, that’s a new one. “What was your first clue?” I said, grinning wide. Why does it bother him that much?

Besides, he’s one to talk. He was playing cards with the neighbours in Akaroa, then he drove off with the sides of the tool truck still open. Details were sparse, but it has to be closed with a rachet strap now. Hah hah.

It feels strange to have a child around and to evaluate what I might look like to them. But then, I’m not really sure what sort of impression I give off anymore. I still feel like I look too adorable to be scary, but everyone seems to see the tattoos and motorcycle before anything else. Do I look like a scary biker chick to a child? A ne’er-do-well ragamuffin?

I took Saturday off, cuz we only had guests checking in, not out, and I was running out of gardening to do. Compared to hauling on the ropes or cutting planks of wood, this was easy. I finally got to the part of Stardew Valley I wanted to be at, so I played away most of the day. It was hot and sunny again; so much for rain all weekend.

The kid hadn’t been here since the cabin was finished, so it was requested that I tidy the cabin and give her a tour. Which didn’t take long.

In the afternoon, I had another head-spinning attack and laid down for a nap. I am worried about the potential for bradycardia. I noticed during my hike up Peak Hill, despite the severity of the ascent and me gasping for breath and having pain in my legs, my heart rate barely cracked 110. It just won’t go up, which is part of the problem I have on jobsites as well. Your heart rate is supposed to elevate with exercise, to bring more oxygen to your muscles as-needed. Of course, if you are in really good health it might not elevate, but I sincerely doubt I am that conditioned. I think I might have a heart problem.

Still, nothing I can do about it here. It occurs to me that I have almost the next year mapped out; once I’m done the shutdowns, I’ll have to have the surgery and then be off work recovering from that, plus biopsy the lump on my leg and do a scope. Fun fun fun!

Once I woke from my slumber, I heard a gentle rumble in the distance. I’d know that sound anywhere; thunder!

I wandered out to the road. There it was, a dark cloud parked over Methven and slowly crawling this way, bringing the smell of rain.

As I watched the cloud roll in, a large truck with a much larger boat rolled past me. Ah, excellent. This customer was at the cheapest cabin, waaay in the back of the property, and had been told to call Simo at the entrance to the drive so they could come detach the boat and park it in the grass. I watched as they flew down the driveway without stopping.

Idiots.

Well, this should be hilarious. I started to walk back down the driveway to watch the fireworks. I was passed by Gary’s daughter, bringing the kids back from the swimming pool. I tried to wave her down, but she didn’t notice. A few moments later, she came backing back up the driveway.

“I tried to warn you.” I grinned.

“What are they doing?”

I shrugged. “Simo told them to call at the entrance and park the boat here, but they did not stop.”

“I heard you got a new tattoo! Let’s see it.”

I showed her. It is a different kind of satisfaction to bring my arms together and watch the grin grow on people’s faces as they realize it’s in two parts.

“Awesome!”

“Your dad didn’t like it, he asked if I was stuffed in the head.” I laughed.

“Oh, he just says stuff like that to rile ya up! Next time, just tell him you’re gonna get a face tattoo or something, really mess with him!”

“Sounds good!”

The boat pulled ahead, and Jess took the back way around to drop the kids off.

My tattoo is well into the itchy peeling stage of healing. My personal way of dealing with it is just to moisturize it when it itches, which seems to work well. My ex-husband had a single tattoo (which someone else paid for, cuz otherwise he was perpetually broke) which he ruined. Guess how? He thought that aloe was a moisturizer!

It’s still wild to me that last October I had no tattoos, and now I have… 4 or 5, depending on if you count the two halves of the triangle as a single tattoo or not. It’s still sort of surreal to look at my forearms and see them covered in black lines, although it gives me a thrill. No regrets here! I’ve wanted most of these tattoos since high school, but just like the motorcycle, I was too scared to look into it until the Vagabond gave me the courage.

I spent part of the afternoon talking to Jeremy. “It’s weird to have this shifting sense of self. Like, Simo’s grandkid is here, and I have no idea what I look like to a kid anymore.”

“Like a vagabond?” He offers helpfully.

Oh yeah. I forgot I gifted myself that title as well. Yes, the homeless, unemployed vagabond, working for room, board and tattoo money. But then, do I look scary or disreputable, or do I seem cool and something to aspire to?

At dinner, I absently scratched my arm. Simo was immediately on me, “Hey! No scratching!”

“Yes, mother.” I said, only slightly sarcastically.

“Oh, did you show Peyton?” She asked.

“Yeah, I saw it in the car, when she said she was going to get another one on her face.” Peyton said absently.

I died both laughing and panicking as Simo exclaimed, “Who’s getting a tattoo on her face!” Eventually I was able to recover enough to explain the story. From the mouths of babes.

It rained a little bit overnight, and it was overcast in the morning, but the rainstorm we were needing and expecting never materialized. They managed to finally contain the fire in the mountains, at least. Except another one broke out in West Melton.

As I took the eggs into the kitchen, Gary smiled over the morning paper. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah, I have to, or else I’m gardening in the midday sun.”

“Yeah I know. Akaroa was brutal. Poor Luigi spent the night in the car!” He added, chuckling. “Simo thought you put him away, she forgot she put him in there before dinner.”

Oops. I thought Gary had put him away early so I didn’t even ask about it.

“Umm, I am leaving on Friday…” I started awkwardly.

“I know, I’m going to go get your pay out today. I was going to do it yesterday but the banks were closed.”

Yay!

I spent the morning clearing out roses. Some wild roses have seeded themselves on the south side of the garden. As we all know, every rose has its thorn, and there are no gloves on this property thick enough to protect my poor hands, not to mention how they whip back at you if they get caught on something. Plus loading the cuttings into the side-by-side and driving them out back to toss them over the fence. At least I had arm-length loppers today, brand new.

This is probably the best for my proficiency at identifying plants as well. I am not a gardener and I will readily admit to that. I have 0 instincts for it. But Simo breaks it down; this is a plum, this is an elder, this is deadly nightshade. Remove them wherever they are. So that’s good for memorizing!

After work, I wandered out to the road to check out the horizon. Man, was it windy! I found a chonky brown birch bolete in the usual place and brought it back in, this will be my lunch tomorrow!

At 5:30 Simo messaged me. They’re staying there for dinner, could me and Ethan fend for ourselves? There’s a jar of sauce in the fridge and penne in the cupboard.

Sure. I put Luigi away lest he be forgotten again, made pasta and put some parmesan on mine while Simo wasn’t around to tell me how wrong it was, and went up to knock on Ethan’s door. He answered with a headset on and controller in his hand, still obviously playing the game as he leaned around the door to glance at the screen. “I made pasta for dinner, and the girls made a cake, you can have a slice.”

“Ok, thanks!”

The cake was pretty good, actually, but then marble cake is pretty simple. Wonder what the pink is?

For whatever reason, the farmer behind us has put a bull in a paddock next to a paddock full of cows. It’s obviously not breeding season, but he’s clearly got the itch, cuz he keeps hanging out next to the fence and bellowing at all hours of the day and night.

If you’re a medium term reader, you might remember me wondering if the flight path from Australia into Christchurch went over the estate. It does not, usually, but the last couple of days it has, presumably because of the severe winds. It’s almost startling to hear a plane; out here, there’s nothing. No helicopters, no planes, no tractor-trailers. You almost forget they exist.

On Monday I got dressed right away. Simo and Gary skipping dinner meant I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to the guys, cuz they’d be in Akaroa until after I left. I met Gary outside and we said goodbye; he seems to be in good spirits, for now.

Ethan ran outside, hopped in the tool truck, turned it on and sped off, spitting gravel behind it. ‘Bye, Ethan?

I will miss him. I find it hard to explain my affection for him; like a brother, perhaps? I wouldn’t feel the desire to hang out with him, but I know he’s got my back, and he is good conversation.

Simo texted me that she was going to sleep in until “at least 9”, so I waited before doing the chickens. At this point I was out of gardening tasks, and since we hadn’t sat together for dinner last night there had been no discussion of what she wanted done today. I cleaned the kitchen like usual, made myself a tea and sat down.

As the clock ticked on to 10, I started to get nervous. I know she said “at least”, but at what point do I get concerned? And what work do I do in the meantime? I know it’s not really a Simo thing to do, but I didn’t want to be compelled to work until 4 or 5, when this isn’t being utilized as free time.

I texted Kelly, who offered a few suggestions for light tasks to keep busy.

Around 11, she finally surfaced, quite tired. The reason was not health related, rest assured, but I’ll withhold them for her privacy. I made her a cup of tea and we sat at the table for a bit as she vented.

Eventually, the conversation turned to her grandaughter, then weird things kids do, then weird things her kids did, as they were adopted from abusive homes.

As she told the stories with a bit of a laugh and a bit of horror, I was unsure what to do with my face. I get uncomfortable around kids and it’s not that I dislike kids, it’s that eventually people go “what were you like as a kid in X scenario” and I don’t usually have a happy story for it. It leaves me with a choice; make up a story, or make everyone in the room uncomfortable by being honest. This was something else; she was telling me about these behaviors with the expectation that they would be novel for me, as opposed to behaviors I was deeply familiar with because I had struggled with them myself.

One thing floated back to me; Kevin saying “how pure your vocal formants are”. That even, after all these years, I was still unable to fully adjust. A guest recently asked if I was from New Zealand, because my way of speaking has always been too vague to place. Not Canadian, not American, not British or Kiwi.

Dare I say something? Or, even, tell her that I wished she was my mother? Which is a thought that’s been floating around the back of my head for at least a month, but even longer, really and truly. I’m not sure what to do with it; is it silly, valid, an attempt to emotionally bond with anyone and everyone… well, no, not that last one. I don’t bond with people easily, armchair pop-psychologists trying to tell me I have daddy issues are wrong. I shove most people away so I don’t have to deal with the pain.

I wonder if this is what the Vagabond was like at my age. I wonder if I’ll be him in 30 years, alone in my home, still too afraid to get close to anyone…

She was too tired to really think of a list, so I was released with a instruction to tidy (also to grab birds nests out of the rain catchers). I puttered around, trying to stay far enough from the house that I could wipe the tears from my eyes if she decided to come get me for any reason.

Dinner was a light affair. Salad, garlic bread, leftover chicken.

My first task on Tuesday was cleaning the library. A bird got into the library and pooped all over everything before dying in a corner. Fresh bird poop is much easier to clean up than dried, hardened guano.

I took the opportunity to look around at Simo’s books, as if I needed one. I’ve been reading her books for weeks now, she doesn’t mind, but I was debating buying her a Christmas present. Hanuman was supposed to send me something for her, but as the strike crawls on, that will be a long time coming. She loves books and is a part of a book club, so I have a hope that my choice is so good it becomes the book club’s next book.

I’m aware that this is my last few days off work, and the emphasis should be on finishing tasks she might have a hard time getting anyone else to do. She had a set of chairs in the back of the garage she wanted painted, so I hauled them out, wiped them down and gave them a bit of a sanding. Simo went out early and I texted her to ask what colour she wanted them. She said she’s be back soon, “ho un regalo per te”.

Un regalo! I knew that right away, a present for me!

When she got in, the present turned out to be cream-filled donut, which I could barely resist wolfing down. We had tea and sat down for a long chat discussing word meanings.

“Why is it called a sweater? What’s sweating got to do with it?”

“Well, why do you call it a jumper? What has jumping got to do with it?” Even less than sweating!

I painted a couple of chairs, it took longer than I was expecting. The molding is harder to do without leaving obvious brush strokes and globes of paint

Wednesday was similarly slow. Feed the chickens, let Luigi out, paint the chairs for a few hours. Panic. The grass is turning brown from lack of rain.

In the afternoon, she had to do a lap around what counts as a block in the country, and asked if I wanted to come along. I jumped in the car; yay! One of the houses she had put offers in had accepted, so she had a place to live after the estate sold, hooray! The closing date is March 21, though, so I won’t be helping with the move, beyond maybe helping pack things in boxes the week before.

Dinner was late, and then we kept chatting about nothing afterwards. I felt that she was unhappy with my impending departure. I was struggling with my own feelings of sort of not wanting to leave, mixed with the realization that there were lots of things I never said. I didn’t tell her about my cancer, or the Vagabond, and now it felt like a wasted opportunity.

The pain sets in and I don’t cry/
I only feel gravity and I wonder why

I don’t want to feel this, this pain. This sorrow. Why am I moving on? Some half-baked instinct to travel. But I can’t stay forever anyway.

Maybe this is what they meant by learning to let things go.

End of the year means recaps. I was almost dreading my Music recap, because I had no idea what it could be, and I got a surprise last year. My music tastes were depressing until I met the Vagabond, and then even the algorithm could chart how my mood continued to improve as he became more entwined with my life. What on earth would it show this year?

First thing that surprised me is that the song I listened to most was Heartbreaker by the Rolling Stones, starting on February and going right thru March. The end of February being when the Bikeriders trailer came out featuring the song, and the white-hot shot of nostalgia that came with it.

The recap also came with a reminder of the fact algorithms are not all-knowing. It commented that August was my most “musically happy” month, when it was in fact the most miserable month this year. That’s because I was consciously trying to avoid sad music to artificially boost my mood, or at least not wallow in my sad feelings. Did it work? Who knows.

I bet next year my top track will be “Insance” for Alastor.

It took a long time to fall asleep Thursday night.