Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Of the last five New Year's Eves, two have been spend in bed with the flu. Tonight is one of those occasions. Just as well, the other three have more than made up for the lack of festivities. And the year itself has been enough of a high that missing one night won't mean a thing.
A year ago, I was standing in a crowd on a Las Vegas strip, streamers shooting through the air as fireworks cast into the night sky from hotel rooftops on all sides. Every year I make the same resolution. I make two. I make one for the world to see (I want to meet him). I make one for myself (I want to be writing the kinds of scripts that make me satisfied to be a writer). Every year, one resolution is met. But I still keep both resolutions every year because being satisfied isn't a state that should be fulfilled and forgotten. I can always get better. I can always meet that resolution anew.
As for the other, it can wait. I look at the relationships that surround me and realize I'm in no rush. Not because they're crappy relationships, just because I'm not there yet. Besides, there'd be the need for understanding where my neuroses are concerned, the acceptance of the weird dog, the shrugging off of my inextractable descents into hermitdom when deadlines loom. This is a lot to ask of him. And so one resolution, every year, remains in place.
In 2003, I catapulted higher than I could ever have imagined. Higher than those Las Vegas rooftops sputtering forth exploding chrysanthemums. 2004 is already soaring.
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