When it comes to New Year’s resolutions I’ve always resolved to loathe New Year. The forced gaiety. Having to pay a tenner for the privilege of sitting in your local, charmless boozer. Random embraces conditioned by drink and the sheer untruth of intensity. The awful greyness of New Year’s Day which follows, which can always be depended upon, as you crapulently shiver on the sofa, wondering what the hell happened over the last twelve months and, possibly, your entire life… Am I depressing you? Sorry.
This New Year, however, was different for me. 2010 proved to be one of those years that come around so rarely you’re surprised to encounter them again. I’ve tried to do some calculation of it. I would say for me they average out at putting in an appearance once a decade. (This is a strike rate some way below the seven years self-renewal theory that some theorist once theorised about.) It’s been a time of tremendous professional activity and a feeling of real achievement (something that perfectionists don’t experience that often) – and that might, superficially, account for the sense of a year that truly feels like an event and a consolidation of sorts. But this year has become one characterised by the kind of purpose that only ever comes from personal revelation. Through a glass, darkly. Indeed. Best and worst of times, until I reached its end and realised that it was, in fact, all gravy. Ah, yes. The present torments us, the past enlightens. And how. So, this year’s crossing over: gratitude for my lot. I should like to reveal more but it will all have to wait for the memoirs, which hopefully won’t have to be self-published.
Thank you so much for reading my occasional musings. My meter tells me that you come and you linger. I am glad of it. I promise to update more regularly in 2011. 11: lucky number of resolve and unity. Here’s hoping for us all.
I want to wish you a Happy New Year. Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!
And now: to poems.