Goodbye, Odd Year. Goodbye. I'll miss you, I guess, the same way relieved survivors remember a disaster they escaped. Wipe the brow, quiet the legs that tremble at the thought of averted annihilation, whistle at the close call.
And while I'm at it, I'll give a nod to the moments where happiness drew near enough to knock my knees. They count as much as the times of despair, and I'll miss their sweetness.
Taken as a whole, my 2013 was a year of the pivot. Around the first anniversary of the stroke, around the silence of the muse, around a bad habit that did not break me. I put my face in a different direction and saw a sliver of light, enough illumination for me to see a way out of this place.
So, what happens next?
The glib answer incorporates all of the bullshit usually associated with NYE: lose 20 pounds, embrace a new workout regimen, go to more concerts, blah blech blarg. You know, stuff about living, not life.
The real answer at the end of the Odd Year: I don't know what happens next.
I hope to stage a play. I hope to write something startling for a screen. I hope to find an untapped vein of imagination and drain that sucker dry.
I wish for a second anniversary, an end to the silence, and a continued distance from a bad habit.
I dream of happiness, the feeling of the glide. Of looking around and seeing the world glisten. Of rapprochement, and the righting of old wrongs.
But mostly I'm facing the light, staring into it, walking into it, and trying to be as quiet as I can be. There's my 2014 resolution. Goddamned winter's cough doesn't make it easier, but it's not just the cough's bark that's loud. I'm too loud. I ask too many questions. It's time for me to shut up and listen. To borrow an oath from the poet / philosopher Kendrick Lamar:
"My new year's resolution is to stop all the pollution/Talk too motherfucking much ... "