Here We Go

I'm not painfully distraught to see 2004 go. I did progressive things I never imagined I'd do and I'm so terribly glad, but it only makes me eager to get at whatever 2005 holds, because I'm certain it's going to be fantastic. The details of my grim determination would frighten you, but don't worry; it's going to be a good ride. I've almost managed to wipe away all vestiges of fear, that odd fear of time moving forward like an unstoppable wind, which has been plaguing me for some time now. I'm only returning to the voracious live-er-of-the-moment that I was before. Most people like me that way. It disappoints the ones that annoy me, which suits me fine, because they only exploited the temporary fearfulness, the worrisome version of me.

I don't technically make resolutions, but if I did, this year's would include a little revenge, a lot fewer unnecessary attempts at self-justification, a bit less niceness, further bettering of my health, fewer excuses for everybody else, further admirable progress financially, emotionally, and in all aspects of life, a grand and successful inveiglement, and some serious pampering of a very loyal and trustworthy automobile. And let us all keep in mind that we have another 364 days to be less petty.

I am so lucky. I'm not even afraid that putting it in writing will jinx my lifetime of glorious serendipity; that’s how lucky I feel.

My brother-in-law’s grandmother died today, less than three months after her son. Her passing was not a surprise; she survived almost an entire year after undergoing surgery to remove a brain tumor much like the one that got my paternal grandfather last spring. I suspect that by the time I got to know her, there wasn’t much left of the somewhat controversial person everyone is now remembering, and I didn’t even get a good enough current impression of her to form my own opinion. The thing about her I will keep around is her maiden name: Virginia O’Hara. An elegant, flowing, powerful name, like moving water. I’m tremendously interested in names. Those close to me are considering banning me from ever having children, or somehow preventing me from naming them myself if I do, because I’m hooked on dignified, elaborately poetic classics like Emmaline and Theodore and Lawrence and maybe even Constantine. What’s in a name? A lot. I have an excellent name, and even though everyone’s shortened it to the leading letter for convenience, which I don’t mind, my full name fits me. It’s not particularly unusual, but it’s pretty and somewhat classic. At least Mom spelled it well.

Apparently the larger of my two cats is as charmed by novelty as I am. Some ardent admirer gave my pets a filtered drinking fountain which provides Oreo no end of amusement. I swear he gets a drink about every ten minutes, just to show off. He likes to dip one massive paw in first. I guess he enjoys the light patterns on the surface of the moving water. He’s that way about the reflecting light from compact discs or tin foil, or flickering shadows from candle flame. I’m just as easily amused. I get a kick out of the elongated afternoon shadow of my funny boxy truck flying over the ancient, weathered Wyoming ground along the highway home from Mom’s. I could watch it for hours. If I thought anybody else could appreciate it, I’d use it as the cover of my book… but then again, I’ve never tried to photograph it. It’s always just been my uplifting secret. I think I’ll keep it that way for now.

Here's to another year of discovery and accomplishment.