Hi, hey, New Year’s Eve, woo! The calendar’s toast to tipplers. Christmas never settled sentimental over me this year, and I’m not feeling the ruminative bent of New Years, either. Not really.
We’re gone again, if you’re wondering why I’m so snooty and not visiting and reading. We left Sunday afternoon to go to the city, see the lights, enjoy the particularly city-ish slant of party time. We just got back from a trip, but I’ve been feeling driven to go. Restless.
For me, I think the New Year is in the fall. When school starts, when the hazy days of summer sharpen their focus, and sweaters come out. By January, stuff is already pointed in the direction it will be going for awhile. I’m pointed in some directions. But it’s not a lonesome venture, either. You don’t change in a vacuum. I’ve been kind intrigued how ideas, opportunities, and perspectives come from people around me and add to my conclusions of what needs to happen next. It’s like you add stuff to your personal structure brick by brick (that isn’t a metaphor for building walls up… I mean things/people/ experiences/ that add to who you are, help you clarify what it is that makes you you).
It’s really hard to get anywhere singularly. If anything, New Years seems like a good time to credit the people in my life who have helped me figure out who I am, and what I think is important. People who help me believe that life has beauty and purpose. Those writers I read here from day to day, particularly the ones I’ve had the opportunity to interact with on some level, have definitely influenced and encouraged this year’s journey. Holy fuck that sounded lame.
What I’m tryin’ to say is, Happy New Years, and thank you for being a part of my writing life.